THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


m  2  9  1975 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 

10001937674 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 

DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 

SOCIETIES 


PR5299 
.SU 

ST 
1883 


\0' 


This  book  is  due  at  the  LOUIS  R.  WILSON  LIBRARY  on  the 
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DUEE                    RET' 

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THE  STORY  OF 

N    AFRICAN    FARM 

A  NOVEL 


RALPH   IRON 

(OLIVE  SCHRBINKR) 


CHICAGO 
M.  A.  DONOHUE  &  CO, 

*07-429  Dearborn  Street 


■ 


HARKAWAY 
SERIES  OF  BOOKS 

By  Bracebridge  Hemin<? 


Price,  75  Cents  per  Volume. 

NO.  TITLE. 

1  Jack  Harkaway's  School  Days. 

2  Jack  Harkaway  After  School  Days 

3  Jack  Harkaway  Afloat  and  Ashore 

4  Jack  Harkaway  at  Oxford,  Part  1. 

5  Jack  Harkaway  at  Oxford,  Part  2. 

6  Jack  Harkaway  Among  the  Brigands,  Part  1. 

7  Jack  Harkaway  Among  the  Brigands,  Part  2. 

8  Jack  Harkaway's   Adventures    Around   the 

World. 

9  Jack  Harkaway  in  America  and  Cuba. 
10  Jack  Harkaway's  Adventures  in  Chin-^. 
i\  Jack  Harkaway's  Adventures  in  Greece, 

Part  1 . 

12  Jack  Harkaway's  Adventures  in  Greecet 

Part  2. 

13  Jack  Harkaway's  Adventures  in  Australia. 

14  Jack  Harkaway  and  His  Boy  Tinker,  Part  t, 

15  Jack  Harkaway  and  His  Boy  Tinker,  Part  % 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers 

•rM.  A.  DQNOhUE  &  CO.,  407-439  Oea^oraflfe^ 

CHICAGO. 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

MRS.  JOHN   BROWN 

OF  BURNLEY, 

THIS  LITTLE  FIRSTLING  OF  MY  PE$ 
IS   LOVINGLY   INSCRIBED 


RALPH  IRON. 


South  Kensington,  London, 
June,  1S83. 


"We  must  see  the  first  images  which  the  external  world 
casts  upon  the  dark  mirror  of  his  mind ;  or  must  hear  the 
first  words  which  awaken  the  sleeping  powers  of  thought, 
and  stand  by  his  earliest  efforts,  if  we  would  understand 
the  prejudices,  the  habits,  and  the  passions  that  will  rule 
his  life.  The  entire  man  is,  so  to  speak,  to  be  found  in  the 
cradle  of  the  child." 

Alexis  de  Tocqueville. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  !. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Shadows  from  Child-life , 9 

II.  Plans  and  Bushman  Paintings 22 

III.  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in 32 

IV.  Blessed  is  he  that  Believeth 42 

V.  Sunday  services 55 

VI.  Bonaparte  Blenkins  makes  his  Nest 68 

VII.  Hesetshis  Trap 76 

VIIL  He  catches  the  Old  Bird 83 

IX.  He  sees  a  Ghost 98 

X.  He  shows  his  Teeth no 

XL  He  Snaps 114 

XII.  He  Bites... 125 

XIII.  He  makes  Love 142 

PART   II. 

I.  Times  and  Seasons 151 

II.  Waldo's  Stranger 178 

III.  Gregory  Rose  finds  his  Affinity 206 

IV.  Lyndall 220 

V.  Tant'  Sannie  holds  an  Upsitting  and  Gregory 

writes  a  Letter 246 

VI.  A  Boer  Wedding .   257 

VII.  Waldo  goes  out  to  taste  Life,  and  Em  stays  at 

Home  and  tastes  it 275 

VIII.  The  "Kopje"..... 281 

IX.  Lyndall's  Stranger 294 

X.  Gregory  Rose  has  an  Idea 307 

XL  An  Unfinished  Letter 313 

XII.  Gregory's  Womanhood 336 

XIII.  Dreams 368 

XIV.  Waldo  goes  out  to  sit  in  the  Sunshine 378 


GLOSSARY. 


Several  Dutch  and  Colonial  words  occurring  in  this 
work,  the  subjoined  Glossary  is  given,  explaining  the 
principal. 


Benaauwdheit 

Brakje 

Bultong 

Ins  pan 

Kappje 

Karroo 

Karroo-bushes 

Kartel 

Kopje 
Kraal 


Mealies 

Meerkat 

Meiboss 

Nachtmaal 

Out-span 

Predikant 
Reim 

Sc  hi  edit 
Shot 
Spock 
Stamp-block 


Upsitting 
Velschoen 


Indigestion. 

A  little  cur  of  low  degree. 

Dried  meat. 

To  harness. 

A  sun-bonnet. 

The  wide  sandy  plains  in  some  parts  of 
South  Africa. 

The  bushes  that  take  the  place  of  grass 
on  these  plains. 

The  wooden  bed  fastened  in  an  ox- 
wagon. 

A  small  hillock,  or  "  little  head." 

The  space  surrounded  by  a  stone  wall  or 
hedged  with  thorn  branches,  into 
which  sheep  or  cattle  are  driven  at 
night.  ♦  ■■ 

Indian  corn. 

A  small  weasel-like  animal. 

Preserved  and  dried  apricots. 

The  Lord's  Supper. 

To  unharness,  or  a  place  in  the  field 
where  one  unharnesses. 

Parson. 

Leather  rope. 

Bad. 

A  dry  watercourse. 

A  ghost. 

A  wooden  block,  hollowed  out,  in  which 
mealies  are  placed  to  be  pounded  be- 
fore being  cooked. 

In  Boer  courtship  the  man  and  girl  are 
supposed  to  sit  up  together  the  whole 
night. 

Shoes  of  undressed  leather. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION. 


I  have  to  thank  cordially  the  public  and  my 
critics  for  the  reception  they  have  given  this  little 
book. 

Dealing  with  a  subject  that  is  far  removed 
from  the  round  of  English  daily  life,  it  of  neces- 
sity lacks  the  charm  that  hangs  about  the  ideal 
representation  of  familiar  things,  and  its  recep- 
tion has  therefore  been  the  more  kindly. 

A  word  of  explanation  is  necessary.  Two 
strangers  appear  on  the  scene,  and  some  have 
fancied  that  in  the  second  they  have  again  the 
first,  who  returns  in  a  new  guise.  Why  this 
should  be  we  cannot  tell ;  unless  there  is  a  feel- 
ing that  a  man  should  not  appear  upon  the  scene, 
and  then  disappear,  leaving  behind  him  no  more 
substantial  trace  than  a  mere  book ;  that  he 
should  return  later  on  as  husband  or  lover,  to  fill 
some  more  important  part  than  that  of  the  mere 
stimulator  of  thought. 

Human  life  may  be  painted  according  to  two 
methods.  There  is  the  stage  method.  Accord- 
ing to  that  each  character  is  duly  marshaled  at 
first,  and  ticketed  ;  we  know  with  an  immutable 
certainty  that  at  the  right  crises  each  one  will 
reappear  and  act  his  part,  and,  when  the  curtain 
falls,  all  will  stand  before  it  bowing.  There  is  a 
sense  of  satisfaction  in  this,  and  of  completeness. 
But  there  is  another  method— the  method  of  the 
life  we  all  lead.     Here  nothing  can  be  prophesied. 


8  PREFACE. 

There  is  a  strange  coming  and  going  of  feet. 
Men  appear,  act  and  re-act  upon  each  other,  and 
pass  away.  When  the  crisis  comes  the  man  who 
would  fit  it  does  not  return.  When  the  curtain 
falls  no  one  is  ready.  When  the  footlights  are 
brightest  they  are  blown  out ;  and  what  the  name 
of  the  play  is  no  one  knows.  If  there  sits  a 
spectator  who  knows,  he  sits  so  high  that  the 
players  in  the  gaslight  cannot  hear  his  breathing. 
Life  may  be  painted  according  to  either  method ; 
but  the  methods  are  different.  The  canons  of 
criticism  that  bear  upon  the  one  cut  cruelly  upon 
the  other. 

It  has  been  suggested  by  a  kind  critic  that  he 
would  better  have  liked  the  little  book  if  it  had 
been  a  history  of  wild  adventure  ;  of  cattle  driven 
into  inaccessible  "kranzes"  by  Bushmen;  "of 
encounters  with  ravening  lions,  and  hair-breadth 
escapes^"  This  could  not  be.  Such  works  are 
best  written  in  Piccadilly  or  in  the  Strand  :  there 
the  gifts  of  the  creative  imagination,  untram- 
meled  by  contact  with  any  fact,  may  spread  their 
wings. 

But,  should  one  sit  down  to  paint  the  scenes 
among  which  he  has  grown,  he  will  find  that  the 
facts  creep  in  upon  him.  Those  brilliant  phases 
and  shapes  which  the  imagination  sees  in  far-off 
lands  are  not  for  him  to  portray.  Sadly  he  must 
squeeze  the  color  frorr/his  brush,  and  dip  it  into 
the  gray  pigments  around  him.  He  must  paint 
what  lies  before  him, 

R.  IRON. 

fune,  1883. 


THE  STORY  OF  AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


Part  I. 

CHAPTER 

shadows  from  child-life. 
The  Watch. 

The  full  African  moon  poured  down  its  light 
from  the  blue  sky  into  the  wide,  lonely  plain. 
The  dry,  sandy  earth,  with  its  coating  of  stunted 
"  karroo  "  bushes  a  few  inches  high,  the  low  hills 
that  skirted  the  plain,  the  milk-bushes  with  their 
long  finger-like  leaves,  all  were  touched  by  a 
weird  and  almost  oppressive  beauty  as  they  lay 
in  the  white  light. 

In  one  spot  only  was  the  solemn  monotony  of 
the  plain  broken.  Near  the  center  a  small  soli- 
tary "  kopje  "  rose.  Alone  it  lay  there,  a  heap  of 
round  ironstones  piled  one  upon  the  other,  as 
over  some  giant's  grave.  Here  and  there  a  few 
tufts  of  grass  or  small  succulent  plants  had  sprung 
up  among  its  stones,  and  on  the  very  summit  a 


10  THE  STORY  OF 

clump  of  prickly  pears  lifted  their  thorny  arms, 
and  reflected,  as  from  mirrors,  the  moonlight  on 
their  broad  fleshy  leaves.  At  the  foot  of  the 
"  kopje "  lay  the  homestead.  First,  the  stone- 
walled "  sheep  kraals  "  and  Kaffir  huts  ;  beyond 
them  the  dwelling-house— a  square  red-brick 
building  with  thatched  roof.  Even  on  its  bare 
red  walls,  and  the  wooden  ladder  that  led  up  to 
the  loft,  the  moonlight  cast  a  kind  of  dreamy 
beauty,  and  quite  etherealized  the  low  brick  wall 
that  ran  before  the  house,  and  which  enclosed  a 
bare  patch  of  sand  and  two  straggling  sunflowers. 
On  the  zinc  roof  of  the  great  open  wagon-house, 
on  the  roofs  of  the  outbuildings  that  jutted  from 
its  side,  the  moonlight  glinted  with  a  quite  pecul- 
iar brightness,  till  it  seemed  that  every  rib  in  the 
metal  was  of  burnished  silver. 

Sleep  ruled  everywhere,  and  the  homestead  was 
not  less  quiet  than  the  solitary  plain. 

In  the  farm-house,  on  her  great  wooden  bed- 
stead, Tant'  Sannie,  the  Boer-woman,  rolled  heav- 
ily in  her  sleep. 

She  had  gone  to  bed,  as  she  always  did,  in  her 
clothes,  and  the  night  was  warm  and  the  room 
close,  and  she  dreamed  bad  dreams.  Not  of  the 
ghosts  and  devils  that  so  haunted  her  waking 
thoughts ;  not  of  her  second  husband,  the  con- 
sumptive Englishman,  whose  grave  lay  away  be- 
yond the  ostrich-camps,  nor  of  her  first,  the  young 
Boer ;  but  only  of  the  sheep's  trotters  she  had 
eaten  for  supper  that  night.  She  dreamed  that 
one  stuck  fast  in  her  throat,  and  she  rolled  her 
huge  form  from  side  to  side,  and  snorted  horribly. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  .   u 

In  the  next  room,  where  the  maid  had  forgotten 
to  close  the  shutter,  the  white  moonlight  fell  in  in 
a  flood,  and  made  it  light  as  day.  There  were  two 
small  beds  against  the  wall.  In  one  lay  a  yellow- 
haired  child,  with  a  low  forehead  and  a  face  of 
freckles ;  but  the  loving  moonlight  hid  defects 
here  as  elsewhere,  and  showed  only  the  innocent 
face  of  a  child  in  its  first  sweet  sleep. 

The  figure  in  the  companion  bed  belonged  of 
right  to  the  moonlight,  for  it  was  of  quite  elfin-like 
beauty.  The  child  had  dropped  her  cover  on  the 
floor,  and  the  moonlight  looked  in  at  the  naked 
little  limbs.  Presently  she  opened  her  eyes  and 
looked  at  the  moonlight  that  was  bathing  her. 

"  Em  !  "  she  called  to  the  sleeper  in  the  other 
bed ;  but  received  no  answer.  Then  she  drew 
the  cover  from  the  floor,  turned  her  pillow,  and 
pulling  the  sheet  over  her  head,  went  to  sleep 
again. 

Only  in  one  of  the  outbuildings  that  jutted  from 
the  wagon-house  there  was  some  one  who  was  not 
asleep.  The  room  was  dark ;  door  and  shutter 
were  closed ;  not  a  ray  of  light  entered  anywhere. 
The  German  overseer,  to  whom  the  room  be- 
longed, lay  sleeping  soundly  on  his  bed  in  the 
corner,  his  great  arms  folded,  and  his  bushy  gray 
and  black  beard  rising  and  falling  on  his  breast. 
But  one  in  the  room  was  not  asleep.  Two  large 
eyes  looked  about  in  the  darkness,  and  two  small 
hands  were  smoothing  the  patchwork  quilt.  The 
boy,  who  slept  on  a  box  under  the  window,  had 
just  awakened  from  his  first  sleep.  He  drew  the 
quilt  up  to  his  chin,  so  that  little  peered  above  it 


12  THE  STORY  OF 

but  a  great  head  of  silky  black  curls  and  the  two 
black  eyes.  He  stared  about  in  the  darkness. 
Nothing  was  visible,  not  even  the  outline  of  one 
worm-eaten  rafter,  nor  of  the  deal  table,  on  which 
lay  the  Bible  from  which  his  father  had  read 
before  they  went  to  bed.  No  one  could  tell  where 
the  tool-box  was,  and  where  the  fireplace.  There 
was  something  very  impressive  to  the  child  in  the 
complete  darkness. 

At  the  head  of  his  father's  bed  hung  a  great 
silver  hunting  watch.  It  ticked  loudly.  The  boy 
listened  to  it,  and  began  mechanically  to  count. 
Tick — tick — tick  !  one,  two,  three,  four  !  He  lost 
count  presently,  and  only  listened.  Tick — tick — 
tick — tick  ! 

It  never  waited  ;  it  went  on  inexorably ;  and 
every  time  it  ticked  a  man  died!  He  raised  him- 
self a  little  on  his  elbow  and  listened.  He  wished 
it  would  leave  off. 

How  many  times  had  it  ticked  since  he  came 
to  lie  down  ?  A  thousand  times,  a  million  times, 
perhaps. 

He  tried  to  count  again,  and  sat  up  to  listen 
better. 

"  Dying,  dying,  dying  !  "  said  the  watch  ;  "  dy- 
ing, dying  dying  !  " 

He  heard  it  distinctly.  Where  were  they  going 
to,  all  those  people  ? 

He  lay  down  quickly,  and  pulled  the  cover  up 
over  his  head  ;  but  presently  the  silky  curls  reap- 
peared. 

"  Dying,  dying,  dying!"  said  the  watch \  "dy* 
ing,  dying,  dying !  " 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  13 

He  thought  of  the  words  his  father  had  read 
that  evening—"  For  wid,  is  the  gate,  and  broad- 
is  the  way,  that  leadeth  to  destruction,  and  many 
there  be  which  go  in  thereat." 

"  Many,  many,  many  !  "  said  the  watch. 

"  Because  strait  is  the  gate,  and  narrow  is  the 
way,  that  leadeth  unto  life,  and  few  there  be  thai 
find  it." 

"  Few,  few,  few !  "  said  the  watch. 

The  b'oy  lay  with  his  eyes  wide  open.  He  saw 
before  him  a  long  stream  of  people,  a  great  dark 
multitude,  that  moved  in  one  direction  ;  then  they 
came  to  the  dark  edge  of  the  world,  and  went 
over.  He  saw  them  passing  on  before  him,  and 
there  was  nothing  that  could  stop  them.  He 
thought  of  how  that  stream  had  rolled  on  through 
all  the  long  ages  of  the  past— how  the  old  Greeks 
and  Romans  had  gone  over ;  the  countless  mill- 
ions of  China  and  India,  they  were  going  over 
now.     Since  he  had  come  to  bed,  how  many  had 

gone ! 

And  the  watch  said,  "  Eternity,  eternity,  eter- 
nity ! " 

"  Stop  them  !  stop  them  !  "  cried  the  child. 

And  all  the  while  the  watch  kept  ticking  on; 
just  like  God's  will,  that  never  changes  or  alters, 
you  may  do  what  you  please. 

Great  beads  of  perspiration  stood  on  the  boy's 
forehead.  He  climbed  out  of  bed  and  lay  with 
his  face  turned  to  the  mud  floor. 

"  Oh,  God,  God !  save  them ! "  he  cried  in 
agony.  "  Only  some  ;  only  a  few  !  Only  for  each 
moment  I  am  praying  here  one  ! "     He  folded 


14  THE  STORY  OF 

his  little  hands  upon  his  head.  "God!  God! 
save  them  ! " 

He  groveled  on  the  floor. 

Oh,  the  long,  long  ages  of  the  past,  in  which 
they  had  gone  over  !  Oh,  the  long,  long  future, 
in  which  they  would  pass  away  !  Oh,  God  !  the 
long,  long,  long  eternity,  which  has  no  end ! 

The  child  wept,  and  crept  closer  to  the  ground. 

The  Sacrifice. 

The  farm  by  daylight  was  not  as  the  farm  by 
moonlight.  The  plain  was  a  weary  flat  of  loose 
red  sand,  sparsely  covered  by  dry  karroo  bushes, 
that  cracked  beneath  the  tread  like  tinder,  and 
showed  the  red  earth  everywhere.  Here  and 
there  a  milk-bush  lifted  its  pale-colored  rods,  and 
in  every  direction  the  ants  and  beetles  ran  about 
in  the  blazing  sand.  The  red  walls  of  the  farm- 
house, the  zinc  roofs  of  the  outbuildings,  the 
stone  walls  of  the  "  kraals,"  all  reflected  the 
fierce  sunlight,  till  the  eye  ached  and  blenched. 
No  tree  or  shrub  was  to  be  seen  far  or  near.  The 
two  sunflowers  that  stood  before  the  door,  out- 
stared  by  the  sun,  drooped  their  brazen  faces  to 
the  sand;  and  the  little  cicada-like  insects  cried 
aloud  among  the  stones  of  the  "  kopje." 

The  Boer- woman,  seen  by  daylight,  was  even 
less  lovely  than  when,  in  bed,  she  rolled  and 
dreamed.  She  sat  on  a  chair  in  the  great  front 
room,  with  her  feet  on  a  wooden  stove,  and  wiped 
her  flat  face  with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  and 
drank  coffee,  and  in  Cape  Dutch  swore  that  the 
beloved  weather  was  damned.     Less  lovely,  too, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  ,5 

by  daylight  was  the  dead  Englishman's  child,  her 
little  step-daughter,  upon  whose  freckles  and  low, 
Wrinkled  forehead  the  sunlight  had  no  mercy. 

"  Lyndall,"  the  child  said  to  her  little  orphan 
tousin,  who  sat  with  her  on  the  floor  threading 
beads,  "  how  is  it  your  beads  never  fall  off  your 
needle  ?  " 

"  I  try,"  said  the  little  one  gravely,  moistening 
her  tiny  finger.     "  That  is  why." 

The  overseer,  seen  by  daylight,  was  a  huge 
German,  wearing  a  shabby  suit,  and  with  a  child- 
ish habit  of  rubbing  his  hands  and  nodding  his 
head  prodigiously  when  pleased  at  anything.  He 
stood  out  at  the  kraals  in  the  blazing  sun,  explain- 
ing to  two  Kaffir  boys  the  approaching  end  of  the 
world.  The  boys,  as  they  cut  the  cakes  of  dung, 
winked  at  each  other,  and  worked  as  slowly  as 
they  possibly  could ;  but  the  German  never 
saw  it. 

Away,  beyond  the  "  kopje,"  Waldo,  his  son, 
herded  the  ewes  and  lambs — a  small  and  dusty 
herd — powdered  all  over  from  head  to  foot  with 
red  sand,  wearing  a  ragged  coat  and  shoes  of  un- 
dressed leather,  through  whose  holes  the  toes 
looked  out.  His  hat  was  too  large,  and  had  sunk 
down  to  his  eyes,  concealing  completely  the  silky 
black  curls.  It  was  a  curious  small  figure.  His 
flock  gave  him  little  trouble.  It  was  too  hot 
for  them  to  move  far ;  they  gathered  round  every 
little  milk-bush  as  though  they  hoped  to  find 
shade,  and  stood  there  motionless  in  clumps.  He 
himself  crept  under  a  shelving  rock  that  lay  at 
the  foot  of  the  "  kopje,"  stretched  himself  on  his 


j6'  THE  STORY  OF 

stomach,  and  waved  his  dilapidated  little  shoes 
in  the  air. 

Soon,  from  the  blue  bag  where  he  kept  his 
dinner,  he  produced  a  fragment  of  slate,  an 
arithmetic,  and  a  pencil.  Proceeding  to  put 
down  a  sum  with  solemn  and  earnest  demeanor, 
he  began  to  add  it  up  aloud :  "  Six  and  two  is 
eight — and  four  is  twelve — and  two  is  fourteen — 
and  four  is  eighteen."  Here  he  paused.  "  And 
four  is  eighteen — and — four — is — eighteen."  The 
last  was  very  much  drawled.  Slowly  the  pencil 
slipped  from  his  fingers,  and  the  slate  followed  it 
into  the  sand.  For  a  while  he  lay  motionless, 
then  began  muttering  to  himself,  folded  his  little 
arms,  laid  his  head  down  upon  them,  and  might 
have  been  asleep,  but  for  a  muttering  sound  that 
from  time  to  time  proceeded  from  him.  A  curi- 
ous old  ewe  came  to  sniff  at  him  ;  but  it  was 
long  before  he  raised  his  head.  When  he  did, 
he  looked  at  the  far-off  hills  with  his  heavy  eyes. 

"Ye  shall  receive — ye  shall  receive  —  shall, 
shall,  shall,"  he  muttered. 

He  sat  up  then.  Slowly  the  dullness  and  heavi- 
ness melted  from  his  face ;  it  became  radiant. 
Mid-day  had  come  now,  and  the  sun's  rays  were 
poured  down  vertically ;  the  earth  throbbed  be- 
fore the  eye. 

The  boy  stood  up  quickly,  and  cleared  a  small 
space  from  the  bushes  which  covered.it.  Look- 
ing carefully,  he  found  twelve  small  stones  of 
somewhat  the  same  size;  kneeling  down,  he 
arranged  them  carefully  on  the  cleared  space  in 
a  square  pile,  in  shape  like  a-n  altar.     Then  he 


,  AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  17 

walked  to  the  bag  where  his  dinner  was  kept ;  in 
it  was  a  mutton-chop  and  a  large  slice  of  brown 
bread.  The  boy  took  them  out  and  turned  the 
bread  over  in  his  hand,  deeply  considering  it. 
Finally  he  threw  it  away  and  walked  to  the  altar 
with  the  meat,  and  laid  it  down  on  the  stones. 
Close  by  in  the  red  sand  he  knelt  down.  Sure, 
never  since  the  beginning  of  the  world  was  there 
so  ragged  and  so  small  a  priest.  He  took  off  his 
great  hat  and  placed  it  solemnly  on  the  ground, 
then  closed  his  eyes  and  folded  his  hands.  He 
prayed  aloud. 

"  Oh,  God,  my  Father,  I  have  made  Thee  a 
sacrifice.  I  have  only  twopence,  so  I  cannot  buy 
a  lamb.  If  the  lambs  were  mine  I  would  give 
Thee  one  ;  but  now  I  have  only  this  meat ;  it  is 
my  jiinner-meat.  Please,  my  Father,  send  fire 
down  from  heaven  to  burn  it.  Thou  hast  said, 
Whosoever  shall  say  unto  this  mountain,  Be  thou 
cast  into  the  sea,  nothing  doubting,  it  shall  be 
done.  I  ask  for  the  sake  of  Jesus  Christ. 
Amen." 

He  knelt  down  with  his  face  upon  the  ground, 
and  he  folded  his  hands  upon  his  curls.  The 
fierce  sun  poured  down  its  heat  upon  his  head  and 
upon  his  altar.  When  he  looked  up  he  knew 
what  he  should  see — the  glory  of  God  !  For  fear 
his  very  heart  stood  still,  his  breath  came  heavily ; 
he  was  half  suffocated.  He  dared  not  look  up. 
Then  at  last  he  raised  himself.  Above  him  was 
the  quiet  blue  sky,  about  him  the  red  earth ; 
there  were  the  clumps  of  silent  ewes  and  his 
altar — that  was  aU, 
a 


IS  THE  STOR  Y  OF 

He  looked  up — nothing  broke  the  intense  still- 
ness of  the  blue  overhead.  He  looked  round  in 
astonishment,  then  he  bowed  again,  and  this  time 
longer  than  before. 

When  he  raised  himself  the  second  time  all 
was  unaltered.  Only  the  sun  had  melted  the  fat 
of  the  little  mutton-chop,  and  it  ran  down  upon 
the  stones. 

Then,  the  third  time  he  bowed  himself.  When 
at  last  he  looked  up,  some  ants  had  come  to  the 
meat  on  the  altar.  He  stood  up  and  drove  them 
away.  Then  he  put  his  hat  on  his  hot  curls,  and 
sat  in  the  shade.  He  clasped  his  hands  about 
his  knees.  He  sat  to  watch  what  would  come 
to  pass.  The  glory  of  the  Lord  God  Almighty ! 
He  knew  he  should  see  it. 

"  My  dear  God  is  trying  me,"  he  said ;  and  he 
sat  there  through  the  fierce  heat  of  the  afternoon. 
Still  he  watched  and  waited  when  the  sun  began 
to  slope  ;  and  when  it  neared  the  horizon,  and 
the  sheep  began  to  cast  long  shadows  across  the 
karroo,  he  still  sat  there.  He  hoped  when  the 
first  rays  touched  the  hills  till  the  sun  dipped 
behind  them  and  was  gone.  Then  he  called  his 
ewes  together,  and  broke  down  the  altar,  and 
threw  the  meat  far,  far  away  into  the  field. 

He  walked  home  behind  his  flock.  His  heart 
was  heavy.  He  reasoned  so  :  "  God  cannot  lie. 
I  had  faith.  No  fire  came.  I  am  like  Cain — I 
am  not  His.  He  will  not  hear  my  prayer.  God 
hates  me." 

The  boy's  heart  was  heavy.  When  he  reached 
the  "  kraal "  gate  the  two  girls  met  him,. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  19 

Come,"  said  the  yellow-haired  Em,  "let  uf 
play  'coop/  There  is  still  time  before  it  gets 
quite  dark.  You,  Waldo,  go  and  hide  on  the 
*  kopje  ' ;  Lyndall  and  I  will  shut  eyes  here,  and 
we  will  not  look." 

The  girls  hid  their  faces  in  the  stone  wall  of 
the  sheep-kraal,  and  the  boy  clambered  half  way 
up  the  "kopje."  He  crouched  down  between 
two  stones  and  gave  the  call.  Just  then  the  milk- 
herd  came  walking  out  of  the  cow-kraal  with  two 
pails.     He  was  an  ill-looking  Kaffir. 

"  Ah  ! "  thought  the  boy,  "  perhaps  he  will  die 
to-night,  and  go  to  hell !  I  must  pray  for  him,  I 
must  pray  ! " 

Then  he  thought — "  Where  am  I  going  to  ?  " 
and  he  prayed  desperately. 

"  Ah  !  this  is  not  right  at  all,"  little  Em  said, 
peeping  between  the  stones,  and  finding  him  in  a 
very  curious  posture.  "  What  are  you  doing, 
Waldo?  It  is  not  the  play,  you  know.  You 
should  run  out  when  we  come  to  the  white  stone. 
Ah,  you  do  not  play  nicely." 

"  I — I  will  play  nicely  now,"  said  the  boy,  com- 
ing out  and  standing  sheepishly  before  them ; 
"  I — I  only  forgot ;  I  will  play  now." 

"  He  has  been  to  sleep,"  said  freckled  Em. 

"  No,"  said  beautiful  little  Lyndall,  looking 
curiously  at  him ;  "  he  has  been  crying." 

She  never  made  a  mistake. 

The  Confession. 

One  night,  two  years  after,  the  boy  sat  alone  on 
the   "  kopje."     He    had   crept   softly  from   his 


2o  THE  STOR  Y  OF 

father's  room  and  come  there.  He  often  did, 
because,  when  he  prayed  or  cried  aloud,  his  father 
might  awake  and  hear  him  ;  and  none  knew  his 
great  sorrow,  and  none  knew  his  grief,  but  he 
himself,  and  he  buried  them  deep  in  his  heart. 

He  turned  up  the  brim  of  his  great  hat  and 
looked  at  the  moon,  but  most  at  the  leaves  of  the 
prickly  pear  that  grew  just  before  him.  They 
glinted,  and  glinted,  and  glinted,  just  like  his  own 
heart — cold,  so  hard,  and  very  wicked.  His  phys- 
ical heart  had  pain  also ;  it  seemed  full  of  little 
bits  of  glass,  that  hurt.  He  had  sat  there  for 
half  an  hour,  *and  he  dared  not  go  back  to  the 
close  house. 

He  felt  horribly  lonely.  There  was  not  one 
thing  so  wicked  as  he  in  all  the  world,  and  he 
knew  it.  He  folded  his  arms  and  began  to  cry — 
not  aloud  ;  he  sobbed  without  making  any  sound, 
and  his  tears  left  scorched  marks  where  they  fell. 
He  could  not  pray  ;  he  had  prayed  night  and  day 
for  so  many  months ;  and  to-night  he  could  not 
pray.  When  he  left  off  crying,  he  held  his  aching 
head  with  his  brown  hands.  If  one  might  have 
gone  up  to  him  and  touched  him  kindly  ;  poor, 
ugly  little  thing  !  Perhaps  his  heart  was  almost 
broken. 

With  his  swollen  eyes  he  sat  there  on  a  flat 
stone  at  the  very  top  of  the  "  kopje,"  and  the 
tree,  with  every  one  of  its  wicked  leaves,  blinked, 
and  blinked,  and  blinked  at  him.  Presently  he 
began  to  cry  again,  and  then  stopped  his  crying 
to  look  at  it.  He  was  quiet  for  a  long  while, 
then  he  knelt  up  slowly  and  bent  forward.     There 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  2 1 

was  a  secret  he  had  carried  in  his  heart  for  a 
year.  He  had  not  dared  to  look  at  it ;  he  had 
not  whispered  it  to  himself ;  but  for  a  year  he 
had  carried  it.  "I  hate  God  ! "  he  said.  The 
wind  took  the  words  and  ran  away  with  them, 
among  the  stones,  and  through  the  leaves  of  the 
prickly  pear.  He  thought  it  died  away  half  down 
the  "  kopje."     He  had  told  it  now  ! 

"  I  love  Jesus  Christ,  but  I  hate  God." 

The  wind  carried  away  that  sound  as  it  had  done 
the  first.  Then  he  got  up  and  buttoned  his  old 
coat  about  him.  He  knew  he  was  certainly  lost 
now  ;  he  did  not  care.  If  half  the  world  were  to 
be  lost,  why  not  he  too  ?  He  would  not  pray  for 
mercy  any  more.  Better  so — better  to  know 
certainly.     It  was  ended  now.     Better  so. 

He  began  scrambling  down  the  sides  of  the 
"  kopje  "  to  go  home. 

Better  so !— But  oh,  the  loneliness,  the  agon- 
ized pain  !  for  that  night,  and  for  nights  on  nights 
to  come !  The  anguish  that  sleeps  all  day  on 
the  heart  like  a  heavy  worm,  and  wakes  up  at 
night  to  feed  !  \, 

"-"There  are  some  of  us  who  in  after  years  say  to 
Fate,  "  Now  deal  us  your  hardest  blow,  give  us 
what  you  will ;  but  let  us  never  again  suffer  as 
we  suffered  when  we  were  children." 

The  barb  in  the  arrow  of  childhood's  suffering 
is  this  :  its  intense  loneliness,  its  intense  igno 
ranee. 


\$ 


^ 


22  THE  STORY  OF 

CHAPTER  II. 

PLANS  AND  BUSHMAN-PAINTINGS. 

At  last  came  the  year  of  the  great  drought,  the 
year  of  eighteen-sixty-two.  From  end  to  end  of 
the  land  the  earth  cried  for  water.  Man  and 
beast  turned  their  eyes  to  the  pitiless  sky,  that 
like  the  roof  of  some  brazen  oven  arched  over- 
head. On  the  farm,  day  after  day,  month  after 
month,  the  water  in  the  dams  fell  lower  and 
lower ;  the  sheep  died  in  the  fields  ;  the  cattle, 
scarcely  able  to  crawl,  tottered  as  they  moved 
from  spot  to  spot  in  search  of  food.  Week  after 
week,  month  after  month,  the  sun  looked  down 
from  the  cloudless  sky,  till  the  karroo-bushes  were 
leafless  sticks,  broken  into  the  earth,  and  the 
earth  itself  was  naked  and  bare ;  and  only  the 
milk-bushes,  like  old  hags,  pointed  their  shriveled 
fingers  heavenward,  praying  for  the  rain  that 
never  came. 

It  was  on  an  afternoon  of  a  long  day  in  that 
thirsty  summer,  that  on  the  side  of  the  "  kopje  " 
furthest  from  the  homestead  the  two  girls  sat. 
They  were  somewhat  grown  since  the  days  when 
they  played  hide-and-seek  there ;  but  they  were 
mere  children  still. 

Their  dress  was  of  dark  coarse  stuff ;  their 
common  blue  pinafores  reached  to  their  ankles* 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  23 

and  on  their  feet  they  wore  home-made  "  vel- 
schoen." 

They  sat  under  a  shelving  rock,  on  the  surface 
of  which  were  still  visible  some  old  Bushman- 
paintings,  their  red  and  black  pigments  having 
been  preserved  through  long  years  from  wind  and 
rain  by  the  overhanging  ledge ;  grotesque  oxen, 
elephants,  rhinoceroses,  and  a  one-horned  beast, 
such  as  no  man  ever  has  seen  or  ever  shall. 

The  girls  sat  with  their  backs  to  the  paintings. 
In  their  laps  were  a  few  fern  and  ice-plant  leaves, 
which  by  dint  of  much  searching  they  had  gath- 
ered under  the  rocks. 

Em  took  off  her  big  brown  kappje  and  began 
vigorously  to  fan  her  red  face  with  it ;  but  her 
companion  bent  low  over  the  leaves  in  her  lap, 
and  at  last  took  up  an  ice-plant  leaf  and  fastened 
it  on  to  the  front  of  her  blue  pinafore  with  a  pin. 

"  Diamonds  must  look  as  these  drops  do,"  she 
said,  carefully  bending  over  the  leaf,  and  crush- 
ing one  crystal  drop  with  her  delicate  little  nail. 
"  When  I,"  she  said,  "  am  grown  up,  I  shall  wear 
real  diamonds,  exactly  like  these,  in  my  hair.'' 

Her  companion  opened  her  eyes  and  wrinkled 
her  low  forehead. 

*•  Where  will  you  find  them,  Lyndall  ?  The 
stones  are  only  crystals  that  we  picked  up  yester- 
day.    Old  Otto  says  so." 

"  And  you  think  that  I  am  going  to  stay  here 
always?" 

The  lip  trembled  scornfully. 

"  Ah,  no,"  said  her  companion.  "  I  suppose 
some  day  we  shall  go  somewhere  j  but  now  ws 


24  ***        THE  STORY  OF 

are  only  twelve,  and  we  cannot  marry  till  we  are 
seventeen.  Four  years,  five — that  is  a  long  time 
to  wait.  And  we  might  not  have  diamonds  if  we 
did  marry." 

"  And  you  think  that  I  am  going  to  stay  here 
till  then  ?  " 

"  Well,  where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  her  com- 
panion. 

The  girl  crushed  an  ice-plant  leaf  between  her 
fingers. 

"  Tant'  Sannie  is  a  miserable  old  woman,"  she 
said.  "  Your  father  married  her  when  he  was 
dying,  because  he  thought  she  would  take  better 
care  of  the  farm,  and  of  us,  than  an  English- 
woman. He  said  we  should  be  taught- and  sent 
to  school.  Now  she  saves  every  farthing  for  her- 
self, buys  us  not  even  one  old  book.  She  does 
not  ill-use  us — why  ?  Because  she  is  afraid  of 
your  father's  ghost.  Only  this  morning  she  told 
her  Hottentot  that  she  would  have  beaten  you 
for  breaking  the  plate,  but  that  three  nights  ago 
she  heard  a  rustling  and  a  grunting  behind  the 
pantry  door,  and  knew  it  was  your  father  coming 
to  '  spook  '  her.  She  is  a  miserable  old  woman," 
said  the  girl,  throwing  the  leaf  from  her  ;  "  but  I 
intend  to  go  to  school." 

"  And  if  she  won't  let  you  ? " 

"  I  shall  make  her." 

"How  ? " 

The  child  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  the 
last  question,  and  folded  her  small  arms  across 
her  knees. 

"But  why  do  you  want  to  go,  Lyndali  ?  " 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


25 


"There  is  nothing  helps  in  this  world,"  said 
the  child  slowly,  "but  to  be  very  wise,  and  to 
know  everything — to  be  clever." 

"  But  I  should  not  like  to  go  to  school !  "  per- 
sisted the  small  freckled  face. 

"And  you  do  not  need  to.  When  you  are 
seventeen  this  Boer-woman  will  go  ;  you  will  have 
this  farm  and  everything  that  is  upon  it  for  your 
own  ;  but  I,"  said  Lyndall,  "  will  have  nothing. 
I  must  learn." 

"  Oh,  Lyndall !  I  will  give  you  some  of  my 
sheep,"  said  Em,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  pitying 
generosity. 

"  I  do  not  want  your  sheep,"  said  the  girl  slowly; 
"  I  want  things  of  my  own.  When  I  am  grown 
up,"  she  added,  the  flush  on  her  delicate  features 
deepening  at  every  word,  "  there  will  be  nothing 
that  I  do  not  know.  I  shall  be  rich,  very  rich; 
and  I  shall  wear  not  only  for  best,  but  every  day, 
a  pure  white  silk,  and  little  rose-buds,  like  the 
lady  in  Tant'  Sannie's  bedroom,  and  my  petti- 
coats will  be  embroidered,  not  only  at  the  bottom, 
but  all  through." 

The  lady  in  Tant'  Sannie's  bedroom  was  a 
gorgeous  creature  from  a  fashion  sheet,  which 
the  Boer-woman,  somewhere  obtaining,  had  pasted 
up  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  to  be  profoundly  admired 
by  the  children. 

"It  would  be  very  nice,"  said  Em;  but  it 
seemed  a  dream  of  quite  too  transcendent  a  glory 
ever  to  be  realized. 

At  this  instant  there  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the 
<4  kopje  "  two  figures — the  one,  a  dog,  white    nd 


26  THE  STORY  OF 

sleek,  one  yellow  ear  hanging  down  over  his  left 
eye ;  the  other,  his  master,  a  lad  of  fourteen,  and 
no  other  than  the  boy  Waldo,  grown  into  a  heavy, 
slouching  youth  of  fourteen.  The  dog  mounted 
the  "kopje  "  quickly,  his  master  followed  slowly. 
He  wore  an  aged  jacket  much  too  large  for  hiir^ 
and  roiled  up  at  the  wrists,  and,  as  of  old,  a  pair 
of  dilapidate*  "  velschoens  "  and  a  felt  hat.  He 
stood  before  the  two  girls  at  last. 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  to-day  ?  "  asked 
Lyndall,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  face. 

"  Looking  after  ewes  and  lambs  below  the  dam. 
Here  !  "  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand  awkwardly, 
"  I  brought  them  for  you." 

There  were  a  few  green  blades  of  tender 
grass. 

"  Where  did  you  find  them  ? " 

"On  the  dam  wall." 

She  fastened  them  beside  the  leaf  on  her  blue 
pinafore. 

"  They  look  nice  there,"  said  the  boy,  awkwardly 
rubbing  his  great  hands  and  watching  her. 

"  Yes  ;  but  the  pinafore  spoils  it  all ;  it  is  not 
pretty." 

He  looked  at  it  closely. 

"  Yes,  the  squares  are  ugly  ;  but  it  looks  nice 
upon  you — beautiful." 

He  now  stood  silent  before  them,  his  great 
hands  hanging  loosely  at  either  side. 

"  Some  one  has  come  to-day,"  he  mumbled  out 
suddenly,  when  the  idea  struck  hirn. 

"Who?  "  asked  both  girls. 

"  An  Englishman  eu  foot." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  27 

■      1 

"What  does  he  look  like?"  asked  Em. 

«  I  did  not  notice ;  but  he  has  a  very  large 
nose,"  said  the  boy  slowly.  "  He  asked  the  way 
to  the  house." 

"  Didn't  he  tell  you  his  name  ? 

«  Yes— Bonaparte  Blenkins." 

"  Bonaparte  !  "  said  Em,  "  why,  that  is  like  the 
reel  Hottentot  Hans  plays  on  the  violin— 

«  '  Bonaparte,  Bonaparte,  my  wife  is  sick ; 
In  the  middle  of  the  week,  but  Sundays  not, 
I  give  her  rice  and  beans  for  soup  . 

It  is  a  funny  name." 

"  There  was  a  living  man  called  Bonaparte 
once,"  said  she  of  the  great  eyes. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  know,"  said  Em— "the  poor  prophet 
whom  the  lions  ate.     I  am  always  so   sorry  for 

him."      .  .   1 

Her  companion  cast  a,  quiet  glance  upon  hen 
"  He  was  the  greatest  man  who  ever  lived, 
she  said,  "  the  man  I  like  best." 

"  And  what  did  he  do  ? "  asked  Em,  conscious 
that  she  had  made  a  mistake,  and  that  her  prophet 
was  not  the  man.  #  ■  • 

"  He  was  one  man,  only  one,"  said  her  little 
companion  slowly,  "yet  all  the  people  in  the 
world  feared  him.  He  was  not  born  great,  he 
was  common  as  we  are  ;  yet  he  was  master  of  the 
world  at  last.  Once  he  was  only  a  little  child, 
then  he  was  a  lieutenant,  then  he  was  a  general, 
then  he  was  an  emperor.  When  he  said  a  thing 
to  himself  he  never  forgot  it.  He  waited,  and 
waited,  and  waited,  and  it  came  at  last." 

"  He  must  have  been  very  happy,"  said  Em. 


28  THE  STORY  OF 

*"  I  do  not  know,"  said  Lyndall ;  "  but  he  had 
what  he  said  he  would  have,  and  that  is  better 
than  being  happy.  He  was  their  master,  and  all 
the  people  were  white  with  fear  of  him.  '  They 
joined  together  to  fight  him.  He  was  one  and 
they  were  many,  and  they  got  him  down  at  last. 
They  were  like  the  wild  cats  when  their  teeth 
are  fast  in  a  great  dog,  like  cowardly  wild  cats," 
said  the  child,  "  they  would  not  let  him  go. 
They  were  many ;  he  was  only  one.  They  sent 
him  to  an  island  in  the  sea,  a  lonely  island,  and 
kept  him  there  fast.  He  was  one  man,  and  they 
were  many,  and  they  were  terrified  at  him.  It 
was  glorious  !  "  said  the  child. 

"  And  what  then  ?  "  said  Em. 

"  Then  he  was  alone  there  in  that  island  with 
men  to  watch  him  always,"  said  her  companion, 
slowly  and  quietly,  "  and  in  the  long  lonely  nights 
he  used  to  lie  awake  and  think  of  the  things  he 
had  done  in  the  old  days,  and  the  things  he  would 
do  if  they  let  him  go  again.  In  the  day  when  he 
walked  near  the  shore  it  seemed  to  him  that  the 
sea  all  around  him  was  a  cold  chain  about  his 
body  pressing  him  to  death." 

"  And  then  ?  "  said  Em,  much  interested. 

"  He  died  there  in  that  island  ;  he  never  got 
away." 

"  It  is  rather  a  nice  story,"  said  Em  ;  "but  the 
end  is  sad." 

"  It  is  a  terrible,  hateful  ending,"  said  the  little 
teller  of  the  story,  leaning  forward  on  her  folded 
arms ;  "  and  the  worst  is,  it  is  true.  I  have 
noticed,"  added  the  child  very  deliberately,  "  that 


AN  AFRICAN  FA  RM.  29 

it  is  only  the  made-up  stories  that  end  nicely ;  the 
true  ones  all  end  so." 

As  she  spoke  the  boy's  dark,  heavy  eyes  rested 
on  her  face. 

"  You  have  read  it,  have  you  not  ?  " 

He  nodded.  "  Yes  ;  but  the  brown  history 
tells  only  what  he  did,  not  what  he  thought." " 

"  It  was  in  the  brown  history  that  I  read  of 
him,"'  said  the  girl ;  "  but  I  know  what  he  thought. 
Books  do  not  tell  everything." 

"  No,"  said  the  boy,  slowly  drawing  nearer  to 
her  and  sitting  down  at  her  feet.  "  What  you 
want  to  know  they  never  tell." 

Then  the  children  fell  into  silence,  till  Doss, 
the  dog,  growing  uneasy  at  its  long  continuance, 
sniffed  at  one  and  the  other,  and  his  master 
broke  forth  suddenly — 

"  If  they  could  talk,  if  they  could  tell  us  now ! 
he  said,  moving  his  hand  out  over  the  surround- 
ing objects— "  then  we  would  know  something, 
This  '  kopje,'  if  it  could  tell  us  how  it  came  here  ! 
The  '  Physical  Geography  '  says,"  he  went  on 
most  rapidly  and  confusedly,  "  that  what  are  dry 
lands  now  were  once  lakes  ;  and  what  I  think  is 
this— these  low  hills  were  once  the  shores  of  a 
lake ;  this  '  kopje '  is  some  of  the  stones  that 
were  at  the  bottom,  rolled  together  by  the  water. 
But  there  is  this— how  did  the  water  come  to 
make  one  heap  here  alone,  in  the  center  of  the 
plain  ?  ''  It  was  a  ponderous  question  ;  no  one 
volunteered  an  answer.  "  Wlien  I  was  little," 
said  the  boy,  "  I  always  looked  at  it  and  won- 
dered, and  I  thought  a  great  giant  was  buried 


30  THE  STORY  OF 

under  it.  Now  I  know  the  water  must  have  done 
it ;  but  how  ?  It  is  very  wonderful.  Did  one 
little  stone  come  first,  and  stopped  the  others  as 
they  rolled  ? "  said  the  boy  with  earnestness,  in  a 
low  voice,  more  as  speaking  to  himself  than  to 
them. 

"  Oh,  Waldo,  God  put  the  little  '  kopje'  here," 
said  Em,  with  solemnity. 

"  But  how  did  He  put  it  here  ? " 

"  By  wanting." 

"  But  how  did  the  wanting  bring  it  here  ?  " 

"  Because  it  did." 

The  last  words  were  uttered  with  the  air  of  one 
who  produces  a  clinching  argument.  What  effect 
it  had  on  the  questioner  was  not  evident,  for  he 
made  no  reply,  and  turned  away  from  her. 

Drawing  closer  to  Lyndall's  feet,  he  said  after 
a  while  in  a  low  voice, 

"  Lyndall,  has  it  never  seemed  to  you  that  the 
stones  were  talking  with  you  ?  Sometimes,"  he 
added,  in  a  yet  lower  tone,  "  I  lie  under  there 
with  my  sheep,  and  it  seems  that  the  stones  are 
really  speaking — speaking  of  the  old  things,  of 
the  time  when  the  strange  fishes  and  animals 
lived  that  are  turned  into  stone  now,  and  the  lakes 
were  here  ;  and  then  of  the  time  when  the  little 
Bushmen  lived  here,  so  small  and  so  ugly,  and 
used  to  sleep  in  the  wild  dog  holes,  and  in  the 
'sloots,'  and  eat  snakes,  and  shot  the  bucks  with 
their  poisoned  arrows.  It  was  one  of  them,  one 
of  these  old  wild  Bushmen,  that  painted  those,;> 
said  the  boy,  nodding  toward  the  pictures — "  one 
who  was  different  from   the  rest.     He  did  not 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  31 

know  why,  but  he  wanted  to  make  something 
beautiful— he  wanted  to  make  something,  so  he 
made  these.  He  worked  hard,  very  hard,  to  find 
the  juice  to  make  the  paint ;  and  then  he  found 
this  place  where  the  rocks  hang  over,  and  he 
painted  them.  To  us  they  are  only  strange  things, 
that  make  us  laugh ;  but  to  him  they  were  very 
beautiful." 

The  children  had  turned  round  and  looked  at 
the  pictures. 

"  He  used  to  kneel  here  naked,  painting,  paint- 
ing, painting ;  and  he  wondered  at  the  things  he 
made  himself,"  said  the  boy,  rising  and  moving 
his  hand  in  deep  excitement.  "  Now  the  Boers 
have  shot  them  all,  so  that  we  never  see  a  little 
yellow  face  peeping  out  among  the  stones."  He 
paused,  a  dreamy  look  coming  over  his  face. 
"  And  the  wild  bucks  have  gone,  and  those  days, 
and  we  are  here.  But  we  will  be  gone  soon,  and 
only  the  stones  will  lie  on  here,  looking  at  every- 
thing like  they  look  now.  I  know  that  it  is  I  who 
am  thinking,"  the  fellow  added  slowly,  "  but  it 
seems  as  though  it  were  they  who  are  talking. 
Has  it  never  seemed  so  to  you,  Lyndall  ?  " 

"  No,  it  never  seems  so  to  me,"  she  answered. 
The  sun  had  dipped  now  below  the  hills,   and 
the  boy,   suddenly  remembering   the   ewes   and 
lambs,  started  to  his  feet. 

"  Let  us  also  go- to  the  house  and  see  who  has 
come,"  said  Em,  as  the  boy  shuffled  away  to  re- 
join his  flock,  while  Doss  ran  at  his  heels,  snap- 
ping at  the  ends  of  the  torn  trousers  as  they 
fluttered  in  the  wind. 


32  THE  STORY  OF 

CHAPTER  IIL 

I  WAS  A  STRANGER,  AND  YE  TOOK  ME  W. 

As  the  two  girls  rounded  the  side  of  the 
"  kopje,"  an  unusual  scene  presented  itself.  A 
large  group  was  gathered  at  the  back  door  of  the 
homestead. 

On  the  door-step  stood  the  Boer-woman,  a  hand 
on  each  hip,  her  face  red  and  fiery,  her  head  nod- 
ding fiercely.  At  her  feet  sat  the  yellow  Hottentot 
maid,  her  satellite,  and  around  stood  the  black 
Kaffir  maids,  with  blankets  twisted  round  their 
half-naked  figures.  Two,  who  stamped  mealies 
in  a  wooden  block,  held  the  great  stampers  in 
their  hands,  and  stared  stupidly  at  the  object  of 
attraction.  It  certainly  was  not  to  look  at  the 
old  German  overseer,  who  stood  in  the  center  of 
the  group,  that  they  had  all  gathered  together. 
His  salt-and-pepper  suit,  grizzly  black  beard,  and 
gray  eyes  were  as  familiar  to  every  one  on  the 
farm  as  the  red  gables  of  the  homestead  itself ; 
but  beside  him  stood  the  stranger,  and  on  him 
all  eyes  were  fixed.  Ever  and  anon  the  new- 
comer cast  a  glance  over  his  pendulous  red  nosa 
to  the  spot  where  the  Boer-woman  stood,  and 
smiled  faintly. 

"  I'm  not  a  child,"'  cried  the  Boer-woman,  in 
low  Cape  Dutch,  "  and  I  wasn't  born  yesterday. 
No,  by  the  Lord,  no  I  You  can't  take  me  in  ! 
My  mother  didn't  wean  me  on  Monday.     One 


AJST  AFRICAN  FARM.  3* 

*vink  of  my  eye  and  I  see  the  whole  thing.  I'll 
have  no  tramps  sleeping  on  my  farm,"  cried  Tant' 
Sannie,  blowing.  "  No,  by  the  Devil,  no !  not 
though  he  had  sixty-times-six  red  noses." 

There  the  German  overseer  mildly  interposed 
that  the  man  was  not  a  tramp,  but  a  highly  re- 
spectable individual,  whose  horse  had  died  by  an 
accident  three  days  before. 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  cried  the  Boer-woman  ;  "  the 
man  isn't  born  that  can  take  me  in.  If  he'd  had 
money,  wouldn't  he  have  bought  a  horse  ?  Men 
who  walk  are  thieves,  liars,  murderers,  Rome's 
priests,  seducers  !  I  see  the  Devil  in  his  nose  ! " 
cried  Tant'  Sannie,  shaking  her  fist  at  him  ;  "and 
to  come  walking  into  the  house  of  this  Boer's 
child,  and  shaking  hands  as  though  he  came  on 
horseback  !     Oh  !  no,  no  !  " 

The  stranger  took  off  his  hat,  a  tall  battered 
chimney-pot,  and  disclosed  a  bald  head,  at  the 
back  of  which  was  a  little  fringe  of  curled  white 
hair;  and  he  bowed  to  Tant'  Sannie. 

"  What  does  she  remark,  my  friend  ?  "  he  in- 
quired, turning  his  cross  wise-looking  eyes  on  the 
old  German. 

The  German  rubbed  his  old  hands,  and  hesi- 
tated. 

"  Ah — well — ah — the — Dutch — you  know — do 
not  like  people  who  walk — in  this  country — ah  !  " 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  the  stranger,  laying  his 
hand  on  trie  German's  arm,  "  I  should  have 
bought  myself  another  horse,  but  crossing,  five 
days  ago,  a  full  river,  I  lost  my  purse — a  purse 
With  five  hundred  pounds  in  it.     I  spent  five  days 


34  THE  STORY  OF 

e>n  the  bank  of  the  river  trying  to  find  it — couldn't. 
Paid  a  Kaffir  nine  pounds  to  go  in  and  look  for  ir 
at  the  risk  of  his  life — couldn't  find  it." 

The  German  would  have  translated  this  infor- 
mation, but  the  Boer-woman  gave  no  ear. 

"  No,  no  ;  he  goes  to-night.  See  how  he  looks 
at  me — a  poor,  unprotected  female !  If  he 
wrongs  me,  who  is  to  do  me  right? "  cried  Tant' 
Sannie. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  German  in  an  undertone, 
"  if  you  didn't  look  at  her  quite  so  much  it  might 
be  advisable.  She — ah — she — might — imagine 
that  you  liked  her  too  well — in  fact — ah " 

"  Certainly,  my  dear  friend,  certainly,"  said  the 
stranger,  "  I  shall  not  look  at  her," 

Saying  this,  he  turned  his  nose  full  upon  a 
small  Kaffir  of  two  years  old.  That  small  naked 
son  of  Ham  became  instantly  so  terrified  that  he 
fled  to  his  mother's  blanket  for  protection,  howl- 
ing horribly. 

Upon  this  the  new-comer  fixed  his  eyes  pen- 
sively on  the  stamp-block,  folding  his  hands  on 
the  head  of  his  cane.  His  boots  were  broken 
but  he  still  had  the  cane  of  a  gentleman. 

"  You  vaggabonds  se  Engelschman  !  "  said  Tant* 
Sannie,  looking  straight  at  him. 

This  was  a  near  approach  to  plain  English ; 
but  the  man  contemplated  the  block  abstractedly, 
wholly  unconscious  that  any  antagonism  was 
being  displayed  toward  him. 

"  You  might  not  be  a  Scotchman  or  anything 
of  that  kind,  might  you  ?  "  suggested  the  German. 
w  It  is  the  English  that  she  hates." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  35 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  the  stranger,  "lam 
Irish  every  inch  of  me — father  Irish,  mother 
Irish.  I've  not  a  drop  of  English  blood  in  my 
veins." 

"  And  you  might  not  be  married,  might  you  ? " 
persisted  the  German.  "  If  you  had  a  wife  and 
children  now  ?  Dutch  people  do  not  like  those 
who  are  not  married." 

"Ah,"  said  the  stranger,  looking  tenderly  at 
the  block,  "  I  have  a  dear  wife  and  three  sweet 
little  children — two  lovely  girls  and  a  noble 
boy." 

This  information  having  been  conveyed  to  the 
Boer-woman,  she,  after  some  further  conversation, 
appeared  slightly  mollified,  but  remained  firm 
to  her  conviction  that  the  man's  designs  were 
evil. 

"  For  dear  Lord  !  "  she  cried,  "  all  Englishmen 
are  ugly ;  but  was  there  ever  such  a  red-rag-nosed 
thing  with  broken  boots  and  crooked  eyes  before  ? 
Take  him  to  your  room,"  she  cried  to  the  Ger- 
man ;  "  but  all  the  sin  he  does  I  lay  at  your 
door." 

The  German  having  told  him  how  matters  were 
arranged,  the  stranger  made  a  profound  bow  to 
Tant'  Sannie,  and  followed  his  host,  who  led  the 
way  to  his  own  little  room. 

"  I  thought  she  would  come  to  her  better  self 
soon,"  the  German  said  joyously.  "  Tant'  Sannie 
is  not  wholly  bad,  far  from  it,  far."  Then  seeing 
his  companion  cast  a  furtive  glance  at  him,  which 
he  mistook  for  one  of  surprise,  he  added  quickly, 
u  Ah,  yes,  yes  ;  we  are  all  a  primitive  people  here 


36  THE  STORY  0? 

—not  very  lofty.  We  deal  not  in  titles.  Every 
one  is  Tanta  and  Oom — aunt  and  uncle.  This 
may  be  my  room,"  he  said,  opening  the  door. 
"  It  is  rough,  the  room  is  rough ;  not  a  palace — ■ 
not  quite.  But  it  may  be  better  than  the  fields, 
a  little  better !  "  he  said,  glancing  round  at  his 
companion.  "  Come  in,  come  in.  There  is 
something  to  eat — a  mouthful :  not  the  fare  of 
emperors  or  kings  ;  but  we  do  not  starve,  not 
yet,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  hands  together  and 
looking  round  with  a  pleased,  half-nervous  smile 
on  his  old  face. 

"  My  friend,  my  dear  friend,"  said  the  stranger, 
seizing  him  by  the  hand,  "  may  the  Lord  bless 
you,  the  Lord  bless  and  reward  you — the  God  of 
the  fatherless  and  the  stranger.  But  for  you  I 
would  this  night  have  slept  in  the  fields,  with  the 
dews  of  heaven  upon  my  head." 

Late  that  evening  Lyndall  came  down  to  the 
cabin  with  the  German's  rations.  Through  the 
tiny  square  window  the  light  streamed  forth,  and 
without  knocking  she  raised  the  latch  and  entered. 
There  was  a  fire  burning  on  the  hearth,  and  it 
cast  its  ruddy  glow  over  the  little  dingy  room, 
with  its  worm-eaten  rafters  and  mud  floor,  and 
broken  white-washed  walls.  A  curious  little 
place,  filled  with  all  manner  of  articles.  Next  to 
the  fire  was  a  great  tool-box ;  beyond  that  the 
little  book-shelf  with  its  well-worn  books  ;  beyond 
that,  in  the  corner,  a  heap  of  filled  and  empty 
grain-bags.  From  the  rafters  hung  down  straps, 
"  reims,"  old  boots,  bits  of  harness,  and  a  string 
of  onions.      The   bed   was   in   another    corner, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  37 

covered  by  a  patchwork  quilt  of  faded  red  lions, 
and  divided  from  the  rest  of  the  room  by  a  blue 
curtain,  now  drawn  back.  On  the  mantel-shelf 
was  an  endless  assortment  of  little  bags  and  stones ; 
and  on  the  wall  hung  a  map  of  South  Germany, 
with  a  red  line  drawn  through  it  to  show  where 
the  German  had  wandered.  This  place  was  the 
one  home  the  girls  had  known  for  many  a  year. 
The  house  where  Tant'  Sannie  lived  and  ruled 
was  a  place  to  sleep  in,  to  eat  in,  not  to  be  happy 
in.  It  was  in  vain  she  told  them  they  were  grown 
too  old  to  go  there  ;  every  morning  and  evening 
found  them  there.  Were  there  not  too  many 
golden  memories  hanging  about  the  old  place 
for  them  to  leave  it? 

Long  winter  nights,  when  they  had  sat  round 
the  fire  and  roasted  potatoes,  and  asked  riddles, 
and  the  old  man  had  told  of  the  little  German 
village,  where,  fifty  years  before,  a  little  German 
boy  had  played  at  snowballs,  and  had  carried 
home  the  knitted  stockings  of  a  little  girl  who 
afterward  became  Waldo's  mother  ;  did  they  not 
seem  to  see  .the  German  peasant  girls  walking 
about  with  their  wooden  shoes  and  yellow,  braid- 
ed hair,  and  the  little  children  eating  their  sup- 
pers out  of  little  wooden  bowls  when  the  good 
mothers  called  them  in  to  have  their  milk  and 
potatoes  ? 

And  were  there  not  yet  better  times  than 
these?  Moonlight  nights,  when  they  romped 
about  the  door,  with  the  old  man,  yet  more  a 
child  than  any  of  them,  and  laughed  till  the  old 
roof  of  the  wagon-house  rang  ? 


38  THE  STORY  OF 

Or,  best  of  all,  were  there  not  warm,  dark, 
starlight  nights,  when  they  sat  together  on  th  door* 
step,  holding  each  other's  hands,  singing  German 
hymns,  their  voices  rising  clear  in  the  still  night 
air — till  the  German  would  draw  away  his  hand 
suddenly  to  wipe  quickly  a  tear  the  children 
must  not  see  ?  Would  they  not  sit  looking  up  at 
the  stars  and  talking  of  them— of  the  dear  South- 
ern Cross,  red,  fiery  Mars,  Orion,  with  his  belt, 
and  the  Seven  Mysterious  Sisters — and  fall  to 
speculating  over  them  ?  How  old  are  they  ? 
Who  dwelt  in  them  ?  And  the  old  German 
would  say  that  perhaps  the  souls  we  loved  lived 
in  them  ;  there,  in  that  little  twinkling  point  was 
perhaps  the  little  girl  whose  stockings  he  had  car- 
ried home  ;  and  the  children  would  look  up  at  it 
lovingly,  and  call  it  "  Uncle  Otto's  star."  Then 
they  would  fall  to  deeper  speculations — of  the 
times  and  seasons  wherein  the  heavens  shall  be 
rolled  together  as  a  scroll,  and  the  star*  shall  fall 
as  a  fig-tree  casteth  her  untimely  figs?  and  there 
shall  be  time  no  longer  ;  "  when  the  Son  of  man 
shall  come  in  His  glory,  and  all  His  holy  angels 
with  Him."  In  lower  and  lower  tones  they 
would  talk,  till  at  last  they  fell  into  whispers  ; 
then  they  would  wish  good-night  softly,  and  walk 
home  hushed  and  quiet. 

To-night,  when  Lyndall  looked  in,  Waldo  sat 
before  the  fire  watching  a  pot  which  simmered 
there,  with  his  slate  and  pencil  in  his  hand ; 
his  father  sat  at  the  table  buried  in  the  columns  of 
a  three-weeks-old  newspaper ;  and  the  stranger 
lay  stretched  on  the  bed  in  the  corner,  fast  asleep, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


39 


his  mouth  open,  his  great  limbs  stretched  out 
loosely,  betokening  much  weariness.  The  girl- 
put  the  rations  down  upon  the  table,  snuffed  the 
candle,  and  stood  looking  at  the  figure  on  the 
bed. 

"Uncle  Otto,"  she  said  presently,  laying  her 
hand  down  on  the  newspaper,  and  causing  the  old 
German  to  look  up  over  his  glasses,  "  how  long 
did  that  man  say  he  had  been  walking?" 

"  Since  this  morning,  poor  fellow  !  A  gentle- 
man— not  accustomed  to  walking — horse  died — 
poor  fellow  !  "  said  the  German,  pushing  out  his 
lip  and  glancing  commiseratingly  over  his  spec- 
tacles in  the  direction  of  the  bed  where  the 
stranger  lay,  with  his  flabby  double  chin,  and 
broken  boots  through  which  the  flesh  shown. 

"  And  do  you  believe  him,  Uncle  Otto  ?  " 

"  Believe  him  ?  why  of  course  I  do.  H** 
himself  told  me  the  story  three  times  distinctly." 

"  If,"  said  the  girl  slowly,  "  he  had  walked  foir 
only  one  day  his  boots  would  not  have  looker 
so  ;  and  if " 

"If!"  said  the  German,  starting  up  in  his 
chair,  irritated  that  anyone  should  doubt  such 
irrefragable  evidence— "  {/7  Why,  he  told  me 
himself/  Look  how  he  lies  there,"  added  the 
German  pathetically,  "  worn  out — poor  fellow  ! 
We  have  something  for  him  though,"  pointing 
with  his  forefinger  over  his  shoulder  to  the  sauce- 
pan that  stood  on  the  fire.  "  We  are  not  cooks 
—not  French  cooks,  not  quite ;  but  it's  drink- 
able, drinkable,  I  think ;  better  than  nothing,  I 
think/'  he  added:  ^*«*4ing  his  head  in  a  jocund 


40 


THE  STOR  Y  OF 


manner,  that  evinced  his  high  estimation  of  the 
contents  of  the  saucepan  and  his  profound  satis- 
faction therein.  "  Bish  !  bish !  my  chicken,"  he 
said,  as  Lyndall  tapped  her  little  foot  up  and 
down  upon  the  floor.  "  Bish  !  bish  !  my  chicken, 
you  will  wake  him." 

He  moved  the  candle  so  that  his  own  head 
might  intervene  between  it  and  the  sleeper's  face  ; 
and,  smoothing  his  newspaper,  he  adjusted  his 
spectacles  to  read.  . 

The  child's  gray-black  eyes  rested  on  the  figure 
on  the  bed,  then  turned  to  the  German,  then 
rested  on  the  figure  again. 

"  I  think  he  is  a  liar.  Good-night,  Uncle  Otto," 
she  said,  slowly,  turning  to  the  door. 

Long  after  she  had  gone  the  German  folded 
his  paper  up  methodically,  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

The  stranger  had  not  awakened  to  partake  of 
the  soup,  and  his  son  had  fallen  asleep  on  the 
ground.  Taking  two  white  sheep-skins  from  the 
heap  of  sacks  in  the  corner,  the  old  man  doubled 
them  up,  and  lifting  the  boy's  head  gently  from 
the  slate  on  which  it  rested,  placed  the  skins 
beneath  it. 

"  Poor  lambie,  poor  lambie,"  he  said,  tenderly 
patting  the  great  rough  bear-like  head ;  ' '  tired, 
is  he  ? " 

He  threw  an  overcoat  across  the  boy's  feet, 
and  lifted  ^  the  saucepan  from  the  fire.  There 
was  no  place  where  the  old  man  could  comfort- 
ably lie  down  himself,  so  he  resumed  his  seat. 
Opening  a  much-worn  Bible,  he  began  to  read, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  41 

and  as  he  read  pleasant  thoughts  and  visions 
thronged  on  him. 

"  I  was  a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in,"  he 
read. 

He  turned  again  to  the  bed  where  the  sleeper 

lay. 

"  I  was  a  stranger." 

Very  tenderly  the  old  man  looked  at  him.  He 
saw  not  the  bloated  body  nor  the  evil  face  of  the 
man  ;  but,  as  it  were,  under  deep  disguise  and 
fleshly  concealment,  the  form  that  long  years  of 
dreaming  had  made  very  real  to  him.  "Jesus, 
lover,  and  is  it  given  to  us,  weak  and  sinful,  frail 
and  erring,  to  serve  Thee,  to  take  Thee  in  ? "  he 
said  softly,  as  he  rose  from  his  seat  Full  of 
joy,  he  began  to  pace  the  little  room.  Now  and 
again  as  he  walked  he  sang  the  lines  of  a  Ger- 
man hymn,  or  muttered  broken  words  of  prayer. 
The  little  room  was  full  of  light.  It  appeared  to 
the  German  that  Christ  was  very  near  him,  and 
that  at  almost  any  moment  the  thin  mist  of 
earthly  darkness  that  clouded  his  human  eyes 
might  be  withdrawn,  and  that  made  manifest  of 
which  the  friends  at  Emmaus,  beholding  it,  said, 
"  It  is  the  Lord  ! " 

Again,  and  yet  again,  through  the  long  hours 
of  that  night,  as  the  old  man  walked,  he  looked 
up  to  the  roof  of  his  little  room,  with  its  black- 
ened rafters,  and  yet  saw  them  not.  His  rough 
bearded  face  was  illuminated  with  a  radiant 
gladness ;  and  the  night  was  not  shorter  to  the 
dreaming  sleepers  than  to  him  whose  waking 
dreams  brought  heaven  near. 


42 


THE  STORY  OF 


So  quickly  the  night  fled,  that  he  looked  up 
with  surprise  when  at  four  o'clock  the  first  gray 
streaks  of  summer  dawn  showed  themselves 
through  the  little  window.  Then  the  old  man 
turned  to  rake  together  the  few  coals  that  lay 
under  the  ashes,  and  his  son,  turning  on  the 
sheep-skins,  muttered  sleepily  to  know  if  it  were 
time  to  rise. 

"  Lie  still,  lie  still !  I  would  only  make  a  fire," 
said  the  old  man. 

"  Have  you  been  up  all  night  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  Yes  ;  but  it  has  been  short,  very  short.  Sleep 
again,  my  chicken  :  it  is  yet  early." 

And  he  went  out  to  fetch  more  fuel. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

BLESSED  IS  HE  THAT  BELIEVETH. 

Bonaparte  Blenkins  sat  on  the  side  of  the 
bed.  He  had  wonderfully  revived  since  the  day 
before,  held  his  head  high,  talked  in  a  full  sonor- 
ous voice,  and  ate  greedily  of  all  the  viands 
offered  him.  At  his  side  was  a*  basin  of  soup, 
vfrom  which  he  took  a  deep  draught  now  and 
again  as  he  watched  the  fingers  of  the  German, 
who  sat  on  the  mud  floor  before  him  mending  the 
bottom  of  a  chair. 

Presently  he  looked  out,  where,  in  the  after- 
noon sunshine,  a  few  half-grown  ostriches  might 
be  seen  wandering  listlessly  about,  and  then  he* 
looked  in  again  at  the  little  white-washed  room, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  43 

and  at  Lyndall,  who  sat  in  the  doorway  looking 
at  a  book.  Then  he  raised  his  chin  and  tried  to 
adjust  an  imaginary  shirt-collar.  Finding  none, 
he  smoothed  the  little  gray  fringe  at  the  back  of 
his  head,  and  began — 

"You  are  a  student  of  history,  I  perceive,  my 
friend,  from  the  study  of  these  volumes  that  lie 
scattered  about  this  apartment ;  this  fact  has 
been  made  evident  to  me." 

"  Well— a  little— perhaps — it  may  be,"  said  the 
German  meekly. 

"  Being  a  student  of  history  then,"  said  Bona- 
parte, raising  himself  loftily,  "  you  will  doubtless 
have  heard  of  my  great,  of  my  celebrated  kins- 
man, Napoleon  Bonaparte  ? " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  German,  looking  up. 

"  I,  sir,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  was  born  at  this 
hour,  on  an  April  afternoon,  three-and-fifty  years 
ago.  The  nurse,  sir — she  was  the  same  who 
attended  when  the  Duke  of  Sutherland  was  born 
— brought  me  to  my  mother.  '  There  is  only  one 
name  for  this  child,'  she  said :  '  he  has  the  nose 
of  his  great  kinsman  ; '  and  so  Bonaparte  Blen- 
kins  became  my  name— Bonaparte  Blenkins. 
Yes,  sir,"  said  Bonaparte,  "there  is  a  stream  on 
my  maternal  side  that  connects  me  with  his 
maternal  side." 

The  German  made  a  sound  of  astonishment. 

"The  connection,"  said  Bonaparte,  "is  one 
which  could  not  be  easily  comprehended  by  one 
unaccustomed  to  the  study  of  aristocratic  pedi- 
grees ;  but  the  connection  is  close." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  "  said  the  German,  pausing  in 


44 


THE  STOR  Y  OF 


his  work  with  much  interest  and  astonishment. 
"  Napoleon  an  Irishman  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  on  the  mother's  side, 
and  that  is  how  we  are  related.  There  wasn't  a 
man  to  beat  him,"  said  Bonaparte,  stretching  him- 
self—" not  a  man  except  the  Duke  of  Wellington. 
And  it's  a  strange  coincidence,"  added  Bonaparte, 
bending  forward,  "but  he  was  a  connection  of 
mine.  His  nephew,  the  Duke  of  Wellington's 
nephew,  married  a  cousin  of  mine.  She  was  a 
woman  !  See  her  at  one  of  the  court  balls— am- 
ber satin — daisies  in  her  hair.  Worth  going  a 
hundred  miles  to  look  at  her  1  Often  seen  her 
mere  myself,  sir  !  " 

The  German  moved  the  leather  thongs  in  and 
out,  and  thought  of  the  strange  vicissitudes  of 
human  life,  which  might  bring  the  kinsman  of 
dukes  and  emperors  to  his  humble  room. 

Bonaparte  appeared  lost  among  old  memories. 
"Ah,  that  Duke  of  Wellington's  nephew  !  "  be 
broke  forth  suddenly;  "  many's  the  joke  I've  had 
with  him.  Often  came  to  visit  me  at  Bonaparte 
Hall.  Grand  place  I  had  then— park,  conserv- 
atory, sen-ants.  He  had  only  one  fault,  that  Duke 
of  Wellington's  nephew,"  said  Bonaparte,  ob- 
serving that  the  German  was  deeply  interested  in 
ever)'  word  :  "  he  was  a  coward — what  you  might 
call  a  coward.  You've  never  been  in  Russia,  I 
suppose  ? "  said  Bonaparte,  fixing  his  crosswise 
looking  eyes  on  the  German's  face. 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  old  man  humbly.  "  France, 
England,  Germany,  a  little  in  this  country  ;  it  is 
all  I  have  traveled." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  45 

«/  mv  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  "have  been 
in  every  country  in  the  world,  and  speak  every 
civilized  language,  excepting  only  Dutch -wd 
German.  I  wrote  a  book  of  my  travels-note- 
worthy incidents.  Publisher  got  it-cheated  me 
out  of  it.  Great  rascals  those  publishers  !  Upon 
one  occasion  the  Duke  .of  Wellington's  nephew 
and  I  were  traveling  in  Russia.  All  of  a  sud- 
den one  of  the  horses  dropped  down  dead  as  a 
door-nail.  There  we  were— cold  night— snow 
four  feet  thick— great  forest-one  horse  not  being 
able  to  move  sledge— night  coming  on—wolves. 
«'  Spree  i'    says    the   Duke    of   Wellington's 

^-Tpree,  do  you  call  it  ? '  says  I.  <  Look  out/ 
«  There,  sticking  out  under  a  bush,  was  noth- 
ing less  than  the  nose  of  a  bear.  The  Duke  o 
-Wellington's  nephew  was  up  a  tree  like  a  shot 
I  stood  quietly  on  the  ground,  as  cool  as ,  I  am  at 
this  moment,  loaded  my  gun,  and  climbed  up  the 
tree      There  was  only  one  bough. 

<<  'Bon,'  said  the  Duke  of  Wellington's  nephew, 
« vou'd  better  sit  in  front.' 

"  <  All  right/  said  I ;  but  keep  your  gun  ready. 
There  aregm'ore  coming.'  He'd  got  his  face 
buried  in  my  back. 

"  '  How  many  are  there  ?    said  he. 

"  'Four,'  said  I.  .         ., " 

"  <  How  many  are  there  now  ?     said  he. 

«•  <  Eight '  said  I. 

«  <  How  many  are  there  now  ?     said  he. 

"  '  Ten  '  said  I.  u  • 

"'Ten'l  ten!'  said  he;    and  down  goes  his 

gun. 


46  THE  XTORY  OF 

"  *  Wallie,'  I  said,  '  what  have  you  done  ?  We're 
dead  men  now.' 

"  '  Bon,  my  old  fellow,'  said  he,  '  I  couldn't 
help  it ,  my  hands  trembled  so  ! ' 

"  'Wall,'  I  said,  turning  round  and  seizing  his 
hand,  '  Wallie,  my  dear  lad,  good-bye.  I'm  not- 
afraid  to  die.  My  legs  are  long — they  hang  down 
— the  first  bear  that  comes  and  I  don't  hit  him, 
off  goes  my  foot.  When  he  takes  it  I  shall  give 
you  my  gun  and  go.  You  may  yet  be  saved  ;  but 
tell,  oh,  tell  Mary  Ann  that  I  thought  of  her,  that 
I  prayed  for  her  ! ' 

"  '  Good-bye,  old  fellow  !  '  said  he. 

"  '  God  bless  you  ! '  said  I. 

"  By  this  time  the  bears  were  sitting  in  a  circle 
all  round  the  tree.  Yes,"  said  Bonaparte  impres- 
sively, fixing  his  eyes  on  the  German,  "  a  regular, 
exact  circle.  The  marks  of  their  tails  were  left 
in  the  snow,  and  I  measured  it  afterward ;  a 
drawing-master  couldn't  have  done  it  better.  It 
was  that  saved  me.  If  they'd  rushed  on  me  at 
Once,  poor  old  Bon  would  never  have  been  here 
to  tell  this  story.  But  they  came  on,  sir,  system- 
atically, one  by  one.  All  the  rest  sat  on  their 
tails  and  waited.  The  first  fellow  came  up,  and 
I  shot  him  ;  the  second  fellow — I  shot  him  ;  the 
third — I  shot  him.  At  last  the  tenth  came;  he 
was  the  biggest  of  all — the  leader,  you  may  say. 

"  '  Wall,'  I  said,  '  give  me  your  hand.  My 
fingers  are  stiff  with  the  cold ;  there  is  only  one 
bullet  left.  I  shall  miss  him.  While  he  is  eating 
me  you  get  down  and  take  your  gun ;  and  live, 
dear  friend,  live  to  remember  the  man  who  gave 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  47 

his  life  for  you  ! '  By  that  time  the  bear  was  at 
me.     I  felt  his  paw  on  my  trousers. 

"  *  Oh,  Bonnie  !  Bonnie  ! '  said  the  Duke  of 
Wellington's  nephew.  But  I  just  took  my  gun, 
and  put  the  muzzle  to  the  bear's  ear — over  he 
fell— dead ! " 

Bonaparte  Blenkins  waited  to  observe  what 
effect  his  story  had  made.  Then  he  took  out  a 
dirty  white  handkerchief,  and  stroked  his  fore- 
head, and  more  especially  his  eyes. 

"  It  always  affects  me  to  relate  that  adventure," 
he  remarked,  returning  the  handkerchief  to  his 
pocket.  "  Ingratitude — base,  vile  ingratitude — 
is  recalled  by  it.  That  man,  that  man,  who  but 
for  me  would  have  perished  in  the  pathless  wilds 
of  Russia,  that  man  in  the  hour  of  my  adversity 
forsook  me."  The  German  looked  up.  "Yes," 
said  Bonaparte,  "  I  had  money,  I  had  lands,  I  said 
to  my  wife,  '  There  is  Africa,  a  struggling  coun- 
try ;  they  want  capital ;  they  want  men  of  talent ; 
they  want  men  of  ability  to  open  up  that  land. 
Let  us  go.' 

"  I  bought  eight  thousand  pounds  worth  of 
machinery — winnowing,  plowing,  reaping  ma- 
chines ;  I  loaded  a  ship  with  them.  Next  steamer 
I  came  out — wife,  children,  all.  Got  to  the  Cape. 
Where  is  the  ship  with  the  things  ?  Lost — gone 
to  the  bottom  !  And  the  box  with  the  money  ? 
Lost — nothing  saved  ! 

"  My  wife  wrote  to  the  Duke  of  Wellington's 
nephew ;  I  didn't  wish  her  to  ;  she  did  it  without 
my  knowledge. 

"What  did  the  man  whose  life  I  saved  do? 


48  THE  STOR  Y  OF 

Did  he  send  me  thirty  thousand  pounds  ?  say 
*  Bonaparte,  my  brother,  here  is  a  crumb  '  ?  No  . 
he  sent  me  nothing. 

"  My  wife,  said  '  Write.'  I  said,  '  Mary  Ann, 
NO.  While  these  hands  have  power  to  work,  no. 
While  this  frame  has  power  to  endure,  no.  Never 
shall  it  be  said  that  Bonaparte  Blenkins  asked  of 
any  man.' " 

The  man's  noble  independence  touched  the 
German. 

"  Your  case  is  hard ;  yes,  that  is  hard,"  said 
the  German,  shaking  his  head. 

Bonaparte  took  another  draught  of  the  soup, 
leaned  back  against  the  pillows,  and  sighed 
deeply. 

"  I  think,"  he  said  after  a  while,  rousing  him- 
self, "  I  shall  now  wander  in  the  benign  air,  and 
taste  the  gentle  cool  of  the  evening.  The  stiff- 
ness hovers  over  me  yet ;  exercise  is  beneficial." 

So  saying,  he  adjusted  his  hat  carefully  on  the 
bald  crown  of  his  head,  and  moved  to  the  door. 
After  he  had  gone  the  German  sighed  again  over 
his  work — 

"  Ah,  Lord  !     So  it  is  !     Ah !  " 

He  thought  of  the  ingratitude  of  the  world. 

"  Uncle  Otto,"  said  the  child  in  the  doorway, 
"  did  you  ever  hear  of  ten  bears  sitting  on  their 
tails  in  a  circle  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  of  ten,  exactly ;  but  bears  do  attack 
travelers  every  day.  It  is  nothing  unheard  of," 
said  the  German.  "  A  man  of  such  courage  too  I 
A  terrible  experience  that ! " 

"  *nd  how  do  we  know  that  the  story  is  true, 
Unfile  Otto?" 


I  A  At  AFRICAN  FARM.  49 

The  German's  ire  was  roused. 

"  That  is  what  I  do  hate  !  "  he  cried.  "  Know 
that  is  true  !  How  do  you  know  that  anything  is 
true  ?  Because  you  are  told  so.  If  we  begin  to 
question  everything — proof,  proof,  proof,  what 
will  we  have  to  believe  left  ?  How  do  you  know 
the  angel  opened  the  prison-door  for  Peter,  ex- 
cept that  Peter  said  so  ?  How  do  you  know  that 
God  talked  to  Moses,  except  that  Moses  wrote  it? 
That  is  what  I  hate  !  " 

The  girl  knit  her  brows.  Perhaps  her  thoughts 
made  a  longer  journey  than  the  German  dreamed 
of;  for,  mark  you,  the  old  dream  little  how  their 
words  and  lives  are  texts  and  studies  to  the  gen- 
eration that  shall  succeed  them.  Not  what  we 
are  taught,  but  what  we  see,  makes  us,  and  the 
child  gathers  the  food  on  which  the  adult  feeds 
to  the  end. 

When  the  German  looked  up  next  there  was  a 
look  of  supreme  satisfaction  in  the  little  mouth 
and  the  beautiful  eyes. 

"  What  dost  see,  chicken  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  child  said  nothing,  and  an  agonizing  shriek 
was  born t  on  the  afternoon  breeze. 

"  Oh,  God  !  my  God  !  I  am  killed  !  "  cried  the 
Voice  of  Bonaparte,  as  he,  with  wide  open  mouth 
and,  shaking  flesh,  fell  into  the  room,  followed  by 
a  half-grown  ostrich,  who  put  its  head  in  at  the 
door,  opened  its  beak  at  him,  and  went  away. 

"  Shut  the  door  !  shut  the  door !     As  you  value 

my  life,  shut  the  door !  "  cried  Bonaparte,  sinking 

into  a  chair,  his  face  blue  and  white,  with  a  green* 

ishness  about  the  mouth.     "  Ah,  my  friend/'  ha 

4 


5<J  - -^         THE  STORY  OF 

said  tremulously,  "  eternity  has  looked  me  in  the 
face  !  My  life's  thread  hung  upon  a  cord  !  The 
valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  !  "  said  Bonaparte, 
seizing  the  German's  arm. 

"  Dear,  dear,  dear  !  "  said  the  German,  who 
had  closed  the  lower  half  of  the  door,  and  stood 
much  concerned  beside  the  stranger,  "  you  have 
had  a  fright.  I  never  knew  so  young  a  bird  to 
chase  before  ;  but  they  will  take  dislikes  toxer- 
tain  people.  I  sent  a  boy  away  once  because  a 
bird  would  chase  him.     Ah,  dear,  dear  !  " 

"When  I  looked  round,"  said  Bonaparte,  "the, 
red  and  yawning  cavity  was  above  me,  and  the 
reprehensible  paw  raised  to  strike  me.  My 
nerves,"  said  Bonaparte,  suddenly  growing  faint, 
"  always  delicate — highly  strung — are  broken — 
broken  !  You  could  not  give  a  little  wine,  a  little 
brandy,  my  friend  ?  " 

The  old  German  hurried  away  to  the  book-shelf, 
and  took  from  behind  the  books  a  small  bottle, 
half  of  whose  contents  he  poured  into  a  cup. 
Bonaparte  drained  it  eagerly. 

"  How  do  you  feel  now  ? "  asked  the  German, 
looking  at  him  with  much  sympathy. 

"  A  little,  slightly  better." 

The  German  went  out  to  pick  up  the  battered 
chimney-pot  which  had  fallen  before  the  door. 

"  I  am  sorry  you  got  the  fright.  The  birds  are 
bad  things  till  you  know  them,"  he  said  sympa- 
thetically, as  he  put  the  hat  down. 

"  My  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  holding  out  his 
hand,  "  I  forgive  you;  do  not  be  disturbed. 
Whatever   the   consequences,  I  forgive  you.     I 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


5* 


know,  I  believe,  it  was  with  no  ill-intent  that  you 
allowed  me  to  go  out.  Give  me  your  hand.  I 
have  no  ill-feeling  ;  none  !  " 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  the  German,  taking 
the  extended  hand,  and  feeling  suddenly  con- 
vinced that  he  was  receiving  magnanimous  for- 
giveness for  some  great  injury — "  you  are  very 
kind." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  Bonaparte. 

He  knocked  out  the  crown  of  his  caved-in  old 
hat,  placed  it  on  the  table  before  him,  leaned  his 
elbows  on  the  table  and  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  contemplated  it. 

"Ah,  my  old  friend,"  he  thus  apostrophized 
the  hat,  "you  have  served  me  long,  you  have 
served  me  faithfully,  but  the  last  day  has  come. 
Never  more  shall  you  be  borne  upon  the  head 
of  your  master.  Never  more  shall  you  protect 
his  brow  from  the  burning  rays  of  summer  or  the 
cutting  winds  of  winter.  Henceforth  bare-headed 
must  your  master  go.  Good-bye,  good-bye,  old 
hat !  " 

At  the  end  of  this  affecting  appeal  the  German 
rose.  He  went  to  the  box  at  the  foot  of  his  bed ; 
out  of  it  he  took  a  black  hat,  which  had  evidently 
been  seldom  worn  and  carefully  preserved. 

"It's  not  exactly  what  you  may  have  been 
accustomed  to,"  he  said,  nervously,  putting  it 
down  beside  the  battered  chimney-pot,  "  but  it 
might  be  of  some  use — a  protection  to  the  head, 
you  know." 

"  My  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  you  are  not 
following  my  advice;  you  are  allowing  yourself 


e2  THE  STORY  OF 

to  be  reproached  on  my  account.     Do  not  make 
yourself  unhappy.     No  ;  I  shall  go  bare-headed." 

"  No,  no,  no  ! "  cried  the  German  energetically, 
"I  have  no  use  for  the  hat,  none  at  all.  It  is 
shut  up  in  the  box." 

"  Then  I  will  take  it,  my  friend.  It  is  a  com- 
fort to  one's  own  mind  when  you  have  uninten- 
tionally injured  any  one  to  make  reparation.  ;  I 
know  the  feeling.  The  hat  may  not  be  of  that 
refined  cut  of  which  the  old  one  was,  bur  it  will 
serve,  yes,  it  will  serve.  Thank  you,"  said  Bona- 
parte, adjusting  it  on  his  head,  and  then  replac- 
ing it  on  the  table.  "  I  shall  lie  down  now  and 
take  a  little  repose,"  he  added;  "  I  much  fear  my 
appetite  for  supper  will  be  lost." 

"  I  hope  not,  I  hope  not,"  said  the  German, 
reseating  himself  at  his  work,  and  looking  much 
concerned  as  Bonaparte  stretched  himself  on  the 
bed  and  turned  the  end  of  the  patchwork  quilt 
over  his  feet. 

"  You  must  not  think  to  make  your  departure, 
not  for  many  days,"  said  the  German  presently. 
"  Tant'  Sannie  gives  her  consent,  and " 

"  My  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  closing  his  eyes 
sadly,  ';  you  are  kind;  but  were  it  not  that  to« 
morrow  is  the  Sabbath,  weak  and  trembling  as  I 
lie  here,  I  would  proceed  on  my  way.  I  must 
seek  work  ;  idleness  but  for  a  day  is  painful. 
Work,  labor — that  is  the  secret  of  all  true  happi- 
ness !  " 

He  doubled  the  pillow  under  his  head,  a^a 
watched  how  the  German  drew  the  leather  thongs 
in  and  out. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


53 


After  a  while  Lyndall  silently  put  her  book  on 
the  shelf  and  went  home,  and  the  German  stood 
up  and  began  to  mix  some  water  and  meal  for 
roaster-cakes.  -  As  he  stirred  them  with  his  hands 
he  said, — 

-  "  I  make  always  a  double  supply  on  Saturday 
night;  the  hands  are  then  free  as  the  thoughts 
for  Sunday." 

"  The  blessed  Sabbath  !  "  said  Bonaparte. 

There  was  a  pause.  Bonaparte  twisted  his 
eyes  without  moving  his  head,  to  see  if  supper 
were  already  on  the  fire. 

"  You  must  sorely  miss  the  administration  of 
the  Lord's  word  in  this  desolate  spot,"  added 
Bonaparte.  "  Oh,  how  love  I  Thine  house,  and 
the  place  where  Thine  honor  dwelleth !  " 

"  Well,  we  do  ;  yes,"  said  the  German ;  "  but 
we  do  our  best.  We  meet  together,  and  I — well, 
I  say  a  few  words,  and  perhaps  they  are  not 
wholly  lost,  not  quite." 

"  Strange  coincidence,"  said  Bonaparte  ;  "  my 
plan  always  was  the  same.  Was  in  the  Free  State 
once— solitary  farm — one  neighbor.  Every  Sun- 
day I  called  together  friend  and  neighbor,  child 
and  servant,  and  said,  '  Rejoice  with  me,  that  we 
may  serve  the  Lord,'  and  then  I  addressed  them. 
Ah,  those  were  blessed  times,"  said  Bonaparte  ■, 
would  they  might  return  !  " 

The  German  stirred  at  the  cakes,  and  stirred, 
and  stirred,  and  stirred.  He  could  give  the 
stranger  his  bed,  and  he  could  give  the  stranger 
his  hat,  and  he  could  give  the  stranger  his  brandy  ; 
but  his  Sunday  service  ! 


54 


THE  STORY  OF 


After  a  good  while  he  said, 

"  I  might  speak  to  Tant'  Minnie ;  I  might 
arrange  ;  you  might  take  the  service  in  my  place, 
if  it—  _» 

"  My  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  it  would  give 
me  the  profoundest  felicity,  the  most  unbounded 
satisfaction  ;  but  in  these  worn-out  habiliments, 
in  these  deteriorated  garments,  it  would  not  be 
possible,  it  would  not  be  fitting  that  I  should 
officiate  in  service  of  One,  whom,  for  respect, 
we  shall  not  name.  No,  my  friend,  I  will  remain 
here  ;  and,  while  you  are  assembling  yourselves 
together  in  the  presence  of  the  LordT  I,  in  my 
solitude,  will  think  of  and  pray  for  you.  No  ;  I 
will  remain  here  ! " 

It  was  a  touching  picture — the  solitary  man 
there  praying  for  them.  The  German  cleared 
his  hands  from  the  meal,  and  went  to  the  chest 
from  which  he  had  taken  the  black  hat.  After 
a  little  careful  feeling  about,  he  produced  a  black 
cloth  coat,  trousers,  and  waistcoat,  which  he  laid 
on  the  table,  smiling  knowingly.  They  were  of 
new  shining  cloth,  worn  twice  a  year,  when  he 
went  to  the  town  to  "  nachtmaal."  He  looked 
with  great  pride  at  the  coat  as  he  unfolded  it  and 
held  it  up. 

"  It's  not  the  latest  fashion,  perhaps,  not  a 
West  End  cut,  not  exactly;  but  it  might  do ;  it 
might  serve  at  a  push.  Try  it  on,  try  it  on  ! " 
he  said,  his  old  gray  eyes  twinkling  with  pride. 

Bonaparte  stood  up  and  tried  on  the  coat.  It 
fitted  admirably ;  the  waistcoat  could  be  made  to 
button  by  ripping  up  the  back,  and  the  trousers 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  55 

were  perfect ;  but  below  were  the  ragged  boots. 
The  German  was  not  disconcerted.  Going  td 
the  beam  where  a  pair  of  top-boots  hung,  he  took 
them  off,  dusted  them  carefully,  and  put  them 
down  before  Bonaparte.  The  old  eyes  now 
fairly  brimmed  over  with  sparkling  enjoyment. 

"  I  have  only  worn  them  once.  They  might 
serve  ;  they  might  be  endured." 

Bonaparte  drew  them  on  and  stood  upright, 
his  head  almost  touching  the  beams.  The  Ger- 
man looked  at  him  with  profound  admiration. 
It  was  wonderful  what  a  difference  feathers  made 
in  the  bird. 

CHAPTER  V. 

SUNDAY    SERVICES. 

Service  No.  I. 

The  boy  Waldo  kissed  the  pages  of  his  book 
and  looked  up.  Far  over  the  flat  lay  the  "  kopje," 
a  mere  speck ;  the  sheep  wandered  quietly  from 
bush  to  bush  :  the  stillness  of  the  early  Sunday 
rested  everywhere,  and  the  air  was  fresh. 

He  looked  down  at  his  book.  On  its  page 
a  black  insect  crept.  He  lifted  it  off  with  his 
finger.  Then  he  leaned  on  his  elbow,  watching 
its  quivering  antennae  and  strange  movements, 
smiling. 

"  Even  you,"  he  whispered,  "  shall  not  die. 
Even  you  He  loves.  Even  you  He  will  fold  in 
His  arms  when  He  takes  everything  and  makes 
it  perfect  and  happy." 


56  THE  STORY  OF     i        v,      ,■     fi 

When  the  thing  had  gone-  he  smoothed  the 
leaves  of  his  Bible  somewhat  caressingly.  The 
leaves  of  that  book  had  dropped  blood  for  him 
once  ;  they  had  taken  the  brightness  out  of  his 
childhood;  from  between  them  had  sprung  the 
visions  that  had  clung  about  him  and  made  night 
horrible.  Adder-like  thoughts  had  lifted  their 
heads,  had  shot  out  forked  tongues  at  him,  ask- 
ing mockingly,  strange,  trivial  questions  that  he 
could  not  answer,  miserable  child  : — 

Why  did  the  women  in  Mark  see  only  one  angel 
and  the  women  in  Luke  two  ?  Could  a  story  be 
told  in  opposite  ways  and  both  ways  be  true? 
Could  it  ?  Could  it  ?  Then  again  :- — Is  there 
nothing  always  right,  and  nothing  always  wrong  ? 
Could  Jael,  the  wife  of  Heber  the  Kenite,  "put  her 
hand  to  the  nail,  and  her  right  hand  to  the  work' 
mail's  hammer  ?  "  and  could  the  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
chant  pceans  over  her,  loud  pceans,  high  pceans,  set 
in  the  book  of  the  Lord,  and  no  voice  cry  out  it  was 
a  mean  and  dastardly  sin  to  lie,  and  kill  the  trust- 
ing in  their  sleep  ?  Could  the  friend  of  God  marry 
his  own  sister,  and  be.  beloved,  and  the  man  who 
does  it  to-day  goes  to  hell,  to  hell?  Was  there  noth- 
ing always  right  or  always  wrong  ? 

Those  leaves  had  dropped  blood  for  him  once : 
they  had  made  his  heart  heavy  and  cold ;  they 
had  robbed  his  childhood  of  its  gladness  ;  now 
his  fingers  moved  over  them  caressingly. 

"  My  father  God  knows,  my  father  knows,"  he 
said ;  "  we  cannot  understand ;  He  knows." 
After  a  while  he  whispered  smiling — "  I  heard 
your  voice  this  morning  when  my  eyes  were  not 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


57 


yet  open,  I  felt  you  near  me,  my  Father.  Why 
do  you  love  me  so  ? "  His  face  was  illuminated. 
"  In  the  last  four  months  the  old  question  has 
gone  from  me.  I  know  you  are  good  ;  I  know 
you  love  everything ;  I  know,  I  know,  I  know  ! 
I  could  not  have  borne  it  any  more,  not  any 
more."  He  laughed  softly.  "  And  all  the  while 
I  was  so  miserable  you  were  looking  at  me  and 
loving  me,  and  I  never  knew-  it.  But  I  know  it 
now,  I  feel  it,"  said  the  boy,  and  he  laughed 
low ;  "  I  feel  it !  "  he  laughed. 

After  a  while  he  began  partly  to  sing,  partly  to 
chant  the  disconnected  verses  of  hymns,  those 
which  spoke  his  gladness,  many  times  over.  The 
sheep  with  their  senseless  eyes  turned  to  look  at 
him  as  he  sang. 

At  last  he  lapsed  into  quiet.  Then  as  the  boy 
lay  there  staring  at  bush  and  sand,  he  saw  a 
vision. 

He  had  crossed  the  river  of  Death,  and  walked 
on  the  other  bank  in  the  Lord's  land  of  Beulah. 
-His  feet  sank  into  the  dark  grass,  and  he  walked 
alone.  Then,  far  over  the  fields,  he  saw  a  figure 
coming  across  the  dark  green  grass.  At  first  he 
thought  it  must  be  one  of  the  angels ,  but  as  it 
came  nearer  he  began  to  feel  what  it  was.  And 
it  came  closer,  closer  to  him,  and  then  the  voice 
said,  "  Come,"  and  he  knew  surely  Who  it  was. 
He  ran  to  the  dear  feet  and  touched  them  with 
his  hands  ;  yes,  he  held  them  fast !  He  lay  down 
beside  them.  When  he  looked  up  the  face  was 
over  him ;  and  the  glorious  eyes  were  loving  him  ; 
and  they  two  were  there  alone  together. 


58  THE  STORY  OF 

He  laughed  a  deep  laugh ;  then  started  up  like 
one  suddenly  awakened  from  sleep. 

"  Oh,  God  !  "  he  cried,  "I  cannot  wait ;  I  can- 
not wait !  I  want  to  die  ;  I  want  to  see  Him  ;  I  want 
to  touch  Him.  Let  me  die  !  "  He  folded  his 
hands,  trembling.  "  How  can  I  wait  so  long — for 
long,  long  years  perhaps  ?  I  want  to  die — to  see 
Him.     I  will  die  any  death.     Oh,  let  me  come  !  " 

Weeping  he  bowed  himself,  and  quivered  from 
head  to  foot.  After  a  long  while  he  lifted  his 
head. 

"  Yes  ;  I  will  wait ;  I  will  wait.  But  not  long  ; 
do  not  let  it  be  very  long,  Jesus  King.  I  want 
you ;  oh,  I  want  you, — soon,  soon  !  "  He  sat 
still,  staring  across  the  plain  with  his  tearful  eyes. 

Service  No.  II. 

In  the  front  room  of  the  farm-house  sat  Tant* 
Sannie  in  her  elbow-chair.  In  her  hand  was  her 
great  brass-clasped  hymn-book,  round  her  neck 
was  a  clean  white  handkerchief,  under  her  feet 
was  a  wooden  stove.  There  too  sat  Em  and 
Lyndall,  in  clean  pinafores  and  new  shoes.  There 
'too  was  the  spruce  Hottentot  in  a  starched  white 
"  kappje,"  and  her  husband  on  the  other  side  of 
the  door,  with  his  wool  oiled  and  very  much 
combed  out,  and  staring  at  his  new  leather  boots. 
The  Kaffir  servants  were  not  there,  because  Tant' 
Sannie  held  they  were  descended  from  apes,  and 
needed  no  salvation.  But  the  rest  were  gathered 
for  the  Sunday  service,  and  waited  the  officiator. 

Meanwhile   Bonaparte   and   the    German   ar> 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  59 

proached  arm  in  arm — Bonaparte  resplendent  in 
the  black  cloth  clothes,  a  spotless  shirt,  and  a 
spotless  collar  :  the  German  in  the  old  salt-and- 
pepper,  casting  shy  glances  of  admiration  at  his 
companion. 

At  the  front  door  Bonaparte  removed  his  hat 
with  much  dignity,  raised  his  shirt-collar,  and  en- 
tered. To  the  center  table  he  walked,  put  his 
hat  solemnly  down  by  the  big  Bible,  and  bowed 
his  head  over  it  in  silent  prayer. 

The  Boer-woman  looked  at  the  Hottentot,  and 
the  Hottentot  looked  at  the  Boer-woman. 

There  was  one  thing  on  earth  for  which  Tant' 
Sannie  had  a  profound  reverence,  which  exercised 
a  subduing  influence  over  her,  which  made  her 
for  the  time  a  better  woman— that  thing  was  new, 
Shining  black  cloth.  It  made  her  think  of  the 
"predikant;"  it  made  her  think  of  the  elders, 
who  sat  in  the  top  pew  of  the  church  on  Sundays, 
with  the  hair  so  nicely  oiled,  so  holy  and  respect- 
able, with  their  little  swallow-tailed  coats ;  it 
made  her  think  of  heaven,  where  everything  was 
so  holy  and  respectable,  and  nobody  wore  tan- 
cord,  and  the  littlest  angel  had  a  black  tail-coat. 
'She  wished  she  hadn't  called  him  a  thief  and  a 
Roman  Catholic.  She  hoped  the  German  hadn't 
told  him.  She  wondered  where  those  clothes 
were  when  he  came  in  rags  to  her  door.  There 
was  no  doubt  he  was  a  very  respectable  man,  a 
gentleman. 

The  German  began  to  read  a  hymn.  At  the 
end  of  each  line  Bonaparte  groaned,  and  twice  at 
the  end  of  every  verse. 


60  THE  STORY  OF 

The  Boer-woman  had  often  heard  of  persons 
groaning  during  prayers,  to  add  a  certain  poign- 
ancy and  finish  to  them ;  old  Jan  Vanderlinde, 
her  mother's  brother,  always  did  it  after  he  was 
converted  ;  and  she  would  have  looked  upon  it 
as  no  especial  sign  of  grace  in  any  one  ;  but  to 
groan  at  hymn-time  !  She  was  'startled.  She 
wondered  if  he  remembered  that  she  shook  her 
fist  in  his  face.  This  was  a  man  of  God.  They 
knelt  down  to  pray.  The  Boer-woman  weighed 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  and  could  not 
kneel.  She  sat  in  her  chair,  and  peeped  between 
her  crossed  fingers  at  the  stranger's  back.  She 
could  not  understand  what  he  said  ;  but  he  was 
in  earnest.  He  shook  the  chair  by  the  back  rail 
till  it  made  quite  a  little  dust  on  the  mud  floor. 

When  they  rose  from  their  knees  Bonaparte 
solemnly  seated  himself  in  the  chair  and  opened 
the  Bible.  He  blew  his  nose,  pulled  up  his  shirt- 
collar,  smoothed  the  leaves,  stroked  down  his 
capacious  waistcoat,  blew  his  nose  again,  looked 
solemnly  round  the  room,  then  began, — 

"  All  liars  shall  have  their  part  in  the  lake 
which  burneth  with  fire  and  brimstone,  which  is 
the  second  death." 

Having  read  this  portion  of  Scripture,  Bona- 
parte paused  impressively,  and  looked  all  round 
the  room. 

"  I  shall  not,  my  dear  friends,"  he  said,  "  long 
detain  you.  Much  of  our  precious  time  has  al- 
ready fled  blissfully  from  us  in  the  voice  of  thanks- 
giving and  the  tongue  of  praise.  A  few,  a  very 
few  words  are  all  I  shall  address  to  you,  and  may 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM,  6 1 

they  be  as  a  rod  of  iron  dividing  the  bones  from 
the  marrow,  and  the  marrow  from  the  bones. 

"  In  the  first  place  :  What  is  a  liar  ? " 

The  question  was  put  so  pointedly,  and  fol- 
lowed by  a  pause  so  profound,  that  even  the 
Hottentot  man  left  off  looking  at  his  boots  and 
opened  his  eyes,  though  he  understood  not  a  word. 

"  I  repeat,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  what  is  a  liar  ? " 

The  sensation  was  intense;  the  attention  of  the 
audience  was  riveted. 

"  Have  you  any  of  you  ever  seen  a  liar,  my 
dear  friends  ? "  There  was  a  still  longer  pause. 
"  I  hope  not ;  I  truly  hope  not.  But  I  will  tell 
you  what  a  liar  is.  I  knew  a  liar  once — a  little 
boy  who  lived  in  Cape  Town,  in  Short  Market 
Street.  His  mother  and  I  sat  together  one  day, 
discoursing  about  our  souls. 

"'Here,  Sampson,'  said  his  mother,  'go  and 
buy  sixpence  of  "  meiboss "  from  the  Malay 
round  the  corner.' 

"  When  he  came  back  she  said,  '  How  much 
have  you  got  ? ' 

" '  Five,'  he  said. 

"  He  was  afraid  if  he  had  said  six  and  a  half 
she'd  ask  for  some.  And,  my  friends,  that  was  a 
lie.  The  half  of  a  '  meiboss  stuck  in  his  throat, 
and  he  died,  and  was  buried.  And  where  did  the 
soul  of  that  little  liar  go  to,  my  friends  ?  It  went 
to  the  lake  of  fire  and  brimstone.  This  brings 
me  to  the  second  point  of  my  discourse. 

"  What  is  a  lake  of  fire  and  brimstone  ?  I  will 
tell  you,  my  friends,"  said  Bonaparte  condescend- 
ingly,    "The    imagination  unaided  cannot  con- 


62  THE  STORY  OF 

ceive  it :  but  by  the  help  of  the  Lord  I  will  put  it 
before  your  mind's  eye. 

—*cl  was  traveling  in  Italy  once  on  a  time ; 
I  came  to  a  city  called  Rome,  a  vast  city  and 
near  it  is  a  mountain  which  spits  forth  fire.  Its 
name  is  Etna.  Now,  there  was  a  man  in  that 
city  of  Rome  who  had  not  the  fear  of  God  before 
his  eyes,  and  he  loved  a  woman.  The  woman 
died,  and  he  walked  up  that  mountain  spitting 
fire,  and  when  he  got  to^the  top  he  threw  himself 
in  at  the  hole  that  is  there.  The  next  day  I  went 
up.  I  was  not  afraid  ;  the  Lord  preserves  His 
servants.  And  in  their  hands  shall  they  bear 
thee  up,  lest  at  any  time  thou  fall  into  a  volcano. 
It  was  dark  night  when  I  got  there,  but  in  the  fear 
of  the  Lord  I  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  yawning 
abyss,  and  looked  in.  That  sight — that  sight, 
my  friends,  is  impressed  upon  my  most  indelible 
memory.  I  looked  down  into  the  lurid  depths 
upon  an  incandescent  lake,  a  melted  fire,  a  seeth- 
ing sea ;  the  billows  rolled  from  side  to  side, 
and  on  their  fiery  crests  tossed  the  white  skele- 
ton of  the  suicide.  The  heat  had  burnt  the  flesh 
from  off  the  bones  ;  they  lay  as  a  light  cork  upon 
the  melted  fiery  waves.  One  skeleton  hand  was 
raised  upward,  the  finger  pointing  to  heaven  ;  the 
other,  with  outstretched  finger,  pointing  down- 
ward, as  though  it  would  say,  '  I  go  below,  but 
you,  Bonaparte,  may  soar  above.'  I  gazed ;  I 
Stood  entranced.  At  that  instant  there  was  a 
crack  in  the  lurid  lake  ;  it  swelled,  expanded,  and 
the  skeleton  of  the  suicide  disappeared,  to  be 
seen  no  more  by  mortal  eye." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  63 

Here  again  Bonaparte  rested,  and  then  con- 
tinued— 

"  The  lake  of  melted  stone  rose  in  the  crater, 
it  swelled  higher  and  higher  at  the  side,  it 
streamed  forth  at  the  top.  I  had  presence  of 
mind ;  near  me  was  a  rock  ;  I  stood  upon  it. 
The  fiery  torrent  was  vomited  out,  and  streamed 
on  either  side  of  me.  And  through  that  long  and 
terrible  night  I  stood  there  alone  upon  that  rock, 
the  glowing  fiery  lava  on  every  hand — a  monu- 
ment of  the  long-suffering  and  tender  providence 
of  the  Lord,  who  spared  me  that  I  might  this  day 
testify  in  your  ears  of  Him. 

"  Now,  my  clear  friends,  let  us  deduce  the  les- 
sons that  are  to  be  learnt  from  this  narrative. 

"Firstly:  let  us  never  commit  suicide.  That 
man  is  a  fool,  my  friends,  that  man  is  insane,  my 
friends,  who  would  leave  this  earth,  my  friends. 
Here  are  joys  innumerable,  such  as  it  hath  not 
entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  understand,  my 
friends.  Here  are  clothes,  my  friends ;  here  are 
beds,  my  friends  :  here  is  delicious  food,  my 
friends.  Our  precious  bodies  were  given  us  to 
love,  to  cherish.  Oh,  let  us  do  so  !  Oh,  let  us 
never  hurt  them  ;  but  care  for  and  love  them,  my 
friends  ! " 

Every  one  was  impressed,  and  Bonaparte  pro- 
ceeded— 

"  Thirdly  :  let  us  not  love  too  much.  If  that 
young  man  had  not  loved  that  young  woman,  he 
would  not  have  jumped  into  Mount  Etna.  The 
good  men  of  old  never  did  so,  Was  Jeremiah 
ever  in  love,  or  Ezekiel,  or  Hosea,  or  even  any  of 


64  THE  STORY  OF 

the  minor  prophets  ?  No.  Then  why  should  we 
be  ?  Thousands  are  rolling  in  that  lake  at  this 
moment  who  would  say,  { It  was  love  that  brought 
us  here.'  Oh,  let  us  think  always  of  our  own 
souls  first.* 

"  '  A  charge  to  keep  I  have, 
A  God  to  glorify ; 
A  never-dying  soul  to  save, 
And  fit  it  for  the  sky.' 

"  Oh,  beloved  friends,  remember  the  little  boy 
.and  the  '  meiboss ; '  remember  the  young  girl  and 
the  young  man ;  remember  the  lake,  the  fire,  and 
the  brimstone ;  remember  the  suicide's  skeleton 
on  the  pitchy  billows  of  Mount  Etna  ;  remember 
the  voice  of  warning  that  has  this  day  sounded 
in  your  ears ;  and  what  I  say  to  you  I  say  to  all 
— watch  !     May  the  Lord  add  His  blessing  !  " 

Here  the  Bible  closed  with  a  tremendous  thud. 
Tant'  Sannie  loosened  the  white  handkerchief 
about  her  neck  and  wiped  her  eyes,  and  the  col- 
ored girl,  seeing  her  do  so,  sniffled.  They  did  not 
understand  the  discourse,  which  made  it  the  more 
affecting.  There  hung  over  it  that  inscrutable 
charm  which  hovers  forever  for  the  human  intel- 
lect over  the  incomprehensible  and  shadowy. 
When  the  last  hymn  was  sung  the  German  con- 
ducted the  officiator  to  Tant'  Sannie,  who  gra- 
ciously extended  her  hand,  and  offered  coffee  and 
a  seat  on  the  sofa.  Leaving  him  there,  the  Ger- 
man hurried  away  to  see  how  the  little  plum-pud- 
ding he  had  left  at  home  was  advancing ;  and 
Tant'  Sannie  remarked  that  it  was  a  hot  day. 
Bonaparte  gathered  her  meaning  as  she  fanned 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  65 

herself  with  the  end  of  her  apron.  He  bowed 
low  in  acquiescence.  A  long  silence  followed. 
Tant'  Sannie  spoke  again.  Bonaparte  gave 
her  no  ear;  his  eye  was  fixed  on  a  small  minia- 
ture on  the  opposite  wall,  which  represented 
Tant'  Sannie  as  she  had  appeared  on  the  day 
before  her  confirmation,  fifteen  years  before, 
attired  in  green  muslin.  Suddenly  he  started 
to  his  feet,  walked  up  to  the  picture,  and  took 
his  stand  before  it.  Long  and  wistfully  he 
gazed  into  its  features;  it  was  easy  to  see 
that  he  was  deeply  moved.  With  a  sudden 
movement,  as  though  no  longer  able  to  re- 
strain himself,  he  seized  the  picture,  loosened 
it  from  its  nail,  and  held  it  close  to  his  eyes. 
At  length,  turning  to  the  Boer-woman,  he  said, 
in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion: — 

"You  will,  I  trust,  dear  madam,  excuse  this 
exhibition  of  my  feelings;  but  this — this  little 
picture  recalls  to  me  my  first  and  best  beloved, 
my  dear  departed  wife,  who  is  now  a  saint  in 
heaven/' 

Tant*  Sannie  could  not  understand;  but  the 
Hottentot  maid,  who  had  taken  her  seat  on  the 
floor  beside  her  mistress,  translated  the 
English  into  Dutch  as  far  as  she  was  able. 

"Ah,  my  first,  my  beloved!"  he  added,  look- 
ing tenderly  down  at  the  picture.  "Oh ,  the  be- 
loved,  the  beautiful  lineaments!  My  angel 
wife !  This  is  surely  a  sister  of  yours,  madam?" 
he  added,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Tant'  Sannie. 

The  Dutchwoman  blushed,  shook  her  head, 
and  pointed  to  herself. 

Carefully,  intently,  Bonaparte  looked  from 

5 


66  THE  STORY  OF 

the  picture  in  his  hand  to  Tant*  Sannie  feat- 
ures, and  from  the  features  back  to  the 
picture.  Then  slowly  a  light  broke  over  his 
countenance;  he  looked  up,  it  became  a  smile; 
he  looked  back  at  the  miniature,  his  whole 
countenance  was  effulgent. 

"Ah,  yes;  I  see  it  now,"  he  cried,  turning  his 
delighted  gaze  on  to  the  Boer-woman;  "eyes, 
mouth,  nose,  chin,  the  very  expression!"  he 
cried.  "How  is  it  possible  I  did  not  notice  it 
before?" 

"Take  another  cup  of  coffee,"  said  Tant* 
Sannie;     "Put  some  sugar  in." 

Bonaparte  hung  the  picture  tenderly  up,  and 
was  turning  to  take  the  cup  from  her  hand, 
when  the  German  appeared,  to  say  that  the 
pudding  was  ready  and  the  meat  on  the  table. 

"He's  a  God-fearing  man,  and  one  who 
knows  how  to  behave  himself,"  said  the  Boer- 
woman  as  he  went  out  at  the  door.  "If  he  is 
ugly,  did  not  the  Lord  make  him?  And  are 
we  to  laugh  at  the  Lord's  handiwork?  It  is 
better  to  be  ugly  and  good  than  pretty  and 
bad;  though,  of  course,  it's  nice  when  one  is 
both,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  looking  complac- 
ently at  the  picture  on  the  wall. 

In  the  afternoon  the  German  and  Bonaparte 
sat  before  the  door  of  the  cabin.  Both  smoked 
in  complete  silence — Bonaparte  with  a  book  in 
his  hands  and  his  eyes  half  closed;  the  Ger- 
man puffing  vigorously,  and  glancing  up  now 
and  again  at  the  serene  blue  sky  overhead. 

"Supposing — you — you,  in  fact,  made  the 
remark  to  me,"  burst  forth  the  German  sud- 
denly, "that  youwere  looking  for  a  situation." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  67 

Bonaparte  opened  his  mouth  wide,  and  sent  a 
Stream  of  smoke  through  his  lips. 

"  Now  supposing,"  said  the  German, — "  merely 
supposing,  of  course, — that  some  one,  some  one 
in  fact,  should  make  an  offer  to  you,  say,  to  be- 
come schoolmaster  on  their  farm  and  teach  two 
children,  two  little  girls,  perhaps,  and  would  give 
you  forty  pounds  a  year,  would  you  accept  it  ?— 
Just  supposing,  of  course." 

"  Well,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  that 
would  depend  on  circumstances.  Money  is  no 
consideration  with  me.  For  my  wife  I  have  made 
provision  for  the  next  year.  My  health  is 
broken.  Could  I  meet  a  place  where  a  gentle- 
man would  be  treated  as  a  gentleman  I  would 
accept  it,  however  small  the  remuneration.  With 
me,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  money  is  no  considera- 
tion." 

"  Well,"  said  the  German,  when  he  had  taken 
a  whiff  or  two  more  from  his  pipe,  "  I  think  I 
shall  go  up  and  see  Tant'  Sannie  a  little.  I  go 
up  often  on  Sunday  afternoon  to  have  a  general 
conversation,  to  see  her,  you  know.  Nothings 
nothing  particular,  you  know." 

The  old  man  put  his  book  into  his  pocket,  and 
walked  up  to  the  farm-house  with  a  peculiarly 
knowing  and  delighted  expression  of  counte- 
nance. 

"  He  doesn't  suspect  what  I'm  going  to  do," 
soliloquized  the  German  :  "  hasn't  the  least  idea. 
A  nice  surprise  for  him." 

The  man  whom  he  had  left  at  his  doorway 
winked  at  the  retreating  figure  with  a  wink  that 
was  not  to  be  described. 


68  THE  STORY  OF 

CHAPTER  VL 

BONAPARTE  BLENKINS  MAKES  HIS  NEST. 

"Ah,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  Waldo, 
stopping  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  with  a  load  of 
skins  on  his  back  that  he  was  carrying  up  to  the 
loft.  Through  the  open  door  in  the  gable  little 
Em  was  visible,  her  feet  dangling  from  the  high- 
bench  on  which  she  sat.  The  room,  once  a  store- 
room, had  been  divided  by  a  row  of  "  mealie  " 
bags  into  two  parts— the  back  being  Bonaparte's 
bedroom,  the  front  his  school-room. 

"  Lyndall  made  him  angry,"  said  the  girl,  tear- 
fully ;  "  and  he  has  given  me  the  fourteenth  of 
John  to  learn.  He  says  he  will  teach  me  to  be- 
have myself,  when  Lyndall  troubles  him." 

"  What  did  she  do  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

"  You  see,"  said  Em,  hopelessly  turning  the 
leaves,  "  whenever  he  talks  she  looks  out  at  the 
door,  as  though  she  did  not  hear  him.  To-day 
she  asked  him  what  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac  were, 
and  he  said  he  was  surprised  that  she  should  ask 
him  ;  it  was  not  a  fit  and  .proper  thing  for  little 
girls  to  talk  about.  Then  she  asked  him  who 
Copernicus  was  ;  and  he  said  he  was  one  of  the 
Emperors  of  Rome,  who-  burned  the  Christians 
in  a  golden  pig,  and  the  worms  ate  him  up  while 
he  was  still  alive.  I  don't  know  why,"  said  Em 
plaintively,  "  but  she  just  put  her  books  under 
her  arm  and  walked  out ;  and  she  will  never  come 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  69 

to  his  school  again,  she  says,  and  she  always 
does  what  she  says.  And  now  I  must  sit  here 
every  day  alone,"  said  Em,  the  great  tears  drop- 
ping softly. 

"  Perhaps  Taut'  Sannie  will  send  him  away," 
said  the  boy,  in  his  mumbling  way,  trying  to 
comfort  her. 

"  No,"  said  Em,  shaking  her  head ;  "  no. 
Last  night  when  the  little  Hottentot  maid  was 
washing  her  feet,  he  told  her  he  liked  such  feet, 
and  that  fat  women  were  so  nice  to  him  ;  and 
she  said  I  must  always  put  him  pure  cream  in  his 
coffee  now.  No ;  he'll  never  go  away,"  said  Em, 
dolorously. 

The  boy  put  down  his  skins  and  fumbled  in 
his  pocket,  and  produced  a  small  piece  of  paper 
containing  something.  He  stuck  it  out  toward 
her. 

"There,  take  it  for  you,"  he  said.  This  was 
by  way  of  comfort. 

Em  opened  it  and  found  a  small  bit  of  gum,  a 
commodity  prized  by  the  children ;  but  the  great 
tears  dropped  down  slowly  on  to  it. 

Waldo  was  distressed.  He  had  cried  so  much 
in  his  morsel  of  life  that  tears  in  another  seemed 
to  burn  him. 

"  If,"  he  said,  stepping  in  awkwardly  and  stand- 
ing by  the  table,  "  if  you  will  not  cry  I  will  tell 
you  something — a  secret." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  asked  Em,  instantly  becom* 
ing  decidedly  better. 

"  You  will  tell  it  to  no  human  being  ?  " 

44  No." 


70  THE  STORY  OF 

He  bent  nearer  to  her,  and  with  deep  solem- 
nity said — 

"  /  have  made  a  machine  I " 

Em  opened  her  eyes. 

"  Yes ;  a  machine  for  shearing  sheep.  It  is 
almost  done,"  said  the  boy.  "  There  is  only  one 
thing  that  is  not  right  yet ;  but  it  will  be  soon. 
When  you  think,  and  think,  and  think,  all  night 
and  all  day,  it  comes  at  last,"  he  added  myste- 
riously. 

"  Where  is  it  ?  " 

';  Here  !  I  always  carry  it  here,"  said  the  boy, 
putting  his  hand  to  his  breast,  where  a  bulging- 
out  was  visible.  "  This  is  a  model.  When  it  is 
dene  they  will  have  to  make  a  large  one." 

"  Show  it  me." 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  not  till  it  is  done.  I  cannot  let  any 
human  being  see  it  till  then." 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  secret,"  said  Em  ;  and  the 
boy  shuffled  out  to  pick  up  his  skins. 

That  evening  father  and  son  sat  in  the  cabin 
eating  their  supper.  The  father  sighed  deeply 
sometimes.  Perhaps  he  thought  how  long  a  time 
it  was  since  Bonaparte  had  visited  the  cabin ;  but 
his  son  was  in  that  land  in  which  sighs  have  no 
part.  It  is  a  question  whether  it  were  not  better 
to  be  the  shabbiest  of  fools,  and  know  the  way 
up  the  little  stair  of  imagination  to  the  land  of 
dreams,  than  the  wisest  of  men,  who  see  nothing 
that  the  eyes  do  not  show,  and  feel  nothing  that 
the  hands  do  not  touch.  The  boy  chewed  his 
brown  bread  and  drank  his  coffee ;  but  in    truth 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  71 

he  saw  only  his  machine  finished — that  last  some- 
thing found  out  and  added.  He  saw  it  as  it 
worked  with  beautiful  smoothness ;  and  over 
and  above,  as  he  chewed  his  bread  and  drank 
his  coffee,  there  was  that  delightful  consciousness 
of  something  bending  over  him  and  loving  him. 
It  would  not  have  been  better  in  one  of  the 
courts  of  heaven,  where  the  walls  are  set  with 
rows  of  the  King  of  Glory's  amethysts  and  milk- 
white  pearls,  than  there,  eating  his  supper  in  that 
little  room. 

As  they  sat  in  silence  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door.  When  it  was  opened  the  small  woolly  head 
of  a  little  nigger  showed  itself.  She  was  a  messen- 
ger from  Tant'  Sannie  :  the  German  was  wanted  at 
once  at  the  homestead.  Putting  on  his  hat  with 
both  hands,  he  hurried  off.  The  kitchen  was  in 
darkness,  but  in  the  pantry  beyond  Tant'  Sannie 
and  her  maids  were  assembled. 

A  Kaffir  girl,  who  had  been  grinding  pepper 
between  two  stones,  knelt  on  the  floor,  the  lean 
Hottentot  stood  with  a  brass  candlestick  in  her 
hand,  and  Tant'  Sannie,  near  the  shelf,  with  a 
hand  on  each  hip,  was  evidently  listening  intently, 
as  were  her  companions. 

"  What  may  it  be  ? "  cried  the  old  German  in 
astonishment. 

The  room  beyond  the  pantry  was  the  store- 
room. Through  the  thin  wooden  partition  there 
arose  at  that  instant,  evidently  from  some  creature 
ensconced  there,  a  prolonged  and  prodigious  howl, 
followed  by  a  succession  of  violent  blows  against 
the  partition  wall. 


y2  THE  STORY  OF 

The  German  seized  the  churn-stick,  and  was 
about  to  rush  round  the  house,  when  the  Boer- 
woman  impressively  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  That  is  his  head,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  "  that 
is  his  head." 

"  But  what  might  it  be  ?  "  asked  the  German, 
looking  from  one  to  the  other,  churn-stick  in 
hand. 

A  low  hollow  bellow  prevented  reply,  and  the 
voice  of  Bonaparte  lifted  itself  on  high. 

"  Mary- Ann  !  my  angel !  my  wife  !  " 
"  "  Isn't  it  dreadful  ?  "  said  Tant'  Sannie,  as  the 
blows  were  repeated  fiercely.  "  He  has  got  a 
letter  :  his  wife  is  dead.  You  must  go  and  com- 
fort him,"  said  Tant'  Sannie  at  last,  "  and  I  will 
go  with  you.  It  would  not  be  the  thing  for  me 
to  go  alone — me;  who  am  only  thirty-three,  and 
he  an  unmarried  man  now,"  said  Tant'  Sannie, 
blushing  and  smoothing  out  her  apron. 

Upon  this  they  all  trudged  round  the  house  in 
company — the  Hottentot  maid  carrying  the  light, 
Tant'  Sannie  and  the  German  following,  and  the 
Kaffir  girl  bringing  up  the  rear. 

"  Oh,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  "  I  see  now  it  wasn't 
wickedness  made  him  do  without  his  wife  so  long 
— only  necessity." 

At  the  door  she  motioned  to  the  German  to 
enter,  and-  followed  him  closely.  On  the  stretch- 
er behind  the  sacks  Bonaparte  lay  on  his  face, 
his  head  pressed  into  a  pillow,  his  legs  kicking 
gently.  The  Boer- worn  an  sat  down  on  a  box  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  The  German  stood  with 
folded  hands  looking  on. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  73 

cl  We  must  all  die,"  said  Tant'  Sannie  at  last ; 
"  it  is  the  dear  Lord's  will." 

Hearing  her  voice,  Bonaparte  turned  himself 
on  to  his  back. 

"  It's  very  hard,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  "  I  know, 
for  I've  lost  two  husbands." 

Bonaparte  looked  up  into  the  German's  face. 

"  Oh,  what  does  she  say  ?  Speak  to  me  words 
of  comfort !  " 

The  German  repeated  Tant'  Sannie's  remark. 

"  Ah  I — I  also  !  Two  dear,  dear  wives,  whom 
I  shall  never  see  any  more  ! "  cried  Bonaparte, 
flinging  himself  back  upon  the  bed. 

He  howled,  till  the  tarantulas,  who  lived  be- 
tween the  rafters  and  the  zinc  roof,  felt  the  un- 
usual vibration,  and  looked  out  with  their  wicked 
bright  eyes,  to  see  what  was  going  on. 

Tant'  Sannie  sighed,  the  Hottentot  maid 
sighed,  the  Kaffir  girl  who  looked  in  at  the  door 
put  her  hand  over  her  mouth  and  said,  "  Mow — 
wah ! " 

"You  must  trust  in  the  Lord,"  said  Tant* 
Sannie.  "  He  can  give  you  more  than  you  have . 
lost." 

"I  do,  I  do  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  but  oh,  I  have  no 
wife !     I  have  no  wife  ! " 

Tant'  Sannie  was  much  affected,  and  came  and 
stood  near  the  bed. 

' '  Ask  him  if  he  won't  have  a  little  pap — nice, 
fine,  flour  pap.  There  is  some  boiling  on  the 
kitchen  fire." 

The  German  made  the  proposal,  but  the  wid- 
ower waved  his  hand. . 


74 


THE  STORY  OF 


"  No,  nothing  shall  pass  my  lips.  I  should  be 
suffocated.  No,  no  !  Speak  not  of  food  to 
me  !" 

u  Pap,  and  a  little  brandy  in,"  said  Tanf 
Sannie  coaxingly. 

Bonaparte  caught  the  word. 

"  Perhaps,  perhaps — if  I  struggled  with  myself 
— for  the  sake  of  my  duties  I  might  imbibe  a  few 
drops,"  he  said,  looking  with  quivering  lip  up 
into  the  German's  face.  "  I  must  do  my  duty, 
must  1  not  ? " 

Tant'  Sannie  gave  the  order,  and  the  girl  went 
for  the  pap.  < 

"  I  know  how  it  was  when  my  first  husband 
died.  They  could  do  nothing  with  me,"  the 
Boer-woman  said,  "  till  I  had  eaten  a  sheep's 
trotter,  and  honey,  and  a  little  roaster-cake.  / 
know." 

Bonaparte  sat  up  on  the  bed  with  his  legs 
stretched  out  in  front  of  him,  and  a  hand  on  each 
knee,  blubbering  softly. 

"  Oh,   she  was  a  woman  !      You  are  very  kind 

f4:o   try  and  comfort  me,  but  she   was  my  wife. 

For  a  woman  that  is  my  wife  I  could  live  ;  for  a 

woman    that    is    my   wife    I  could    die !     For   a 

woman    that  is  my  wife  I  could Ah  !     that 

sweet  word  wife ;  when  will  it  rest  upon  my  lips 
again  ? " 

When  his  feelings  had  subsided  a  little  he 
raised  the  corners  of  his  turned-down  mouth,  and 
spoke  to  the  German  with  flabby  lips. 

"  Do  you  think  she  understands  me  ?  Oh,  tell 
her  every  word,  that  she  may  kccw  I  thaM  J?^r  " 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


75 


At  that  instant  the  girl  reappeared  with  a  basin 
Of  steaming  gruel  and  a  black  bottle. 

Tant'  Sannie  poured  some  'of  its  contents  into 
the  basin,  stirred  it  well,  and  came  to  the  bed. 

"  Oh,  I  can't,  I  can't !  I  shall  die !  I  shall 
die ! "  said  Bonaparte,  putting  his  hands  to  his 
side. 

"  Come,  just  a  little,"  said  Tant'  Sannie  coax- 
ingly;  "just  a  drop." 

"  It's  too  thick,  it's  too  thick.     I  should  choke." 

Tant'  Sannie  added  from  the  contents  of  the 
bottle  and  held  out  a  spoonful ;  Bonaparte  opened 
his  mouth  like  a  little  bird  waiting  for  a  worm, 
and  held  it  open,  as  she  dipped  again  and  again 
into  the  pap. 

"  Ah,  this  will  do  your  heart  good,"  said  Tant' 
Sannie,  in  whose  mind  the  relative  functions  of 
heart  and  stomach  were  exceedingly  ill-defined. 

When  the  basin  was  emptied  the  violence  of 
his  grief  was  much  assuaged ;  he  looked  at  Tant' 
Sannie  with  gentle  tears. ' 

"  Tell  him,"  said  the  Boer-woman,  "  that  I  hope 
he  will  sleep  well,  and  that  the  Lord  will  comfort 
him,  as  the  Lord  only  can." 

"  Bless  you,  dear  friend,  God  bless  you,"  said 
Bonaparte. 

When  the  door  was  safely  shut  on  the  German, 
the  Hottentot,  and  the  Dutch-woman,  he  got  off 
the  bed  and  washed  away  the  soap  he  had  rubbed 
on  his  eyelids. 

"  Bon,"  he  said,  slapping  his  leg,  "  you're  the 
'cutest  lad  I  ever  came  across.  If  you  don't  turn 
out  the  old  Hymns-and-prayers,  and  pummel  the 


76  THE  STORY  OF 

Ragged-coat,  and  get  your  arms  round  the  fat 
one's  waist  and  a  wedding-ring  on  her  finger, 
then  you  are  not  Bonaparte.  But  you  are  Bona- 
parte.    Bon,  you're  a  fine  boy  !  " 

Making  which  pleasing  reflection,  he  pulled  off 
his  trousers  and  got  into  bed  cheerfully. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HE    SETS     HIS    TRAP. 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  I  hope  I  do  not  disturb  you, 
my  dear  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  late  one  even- 
ing, putting  his  nose  in  at  the  cabin  door,  where 
the  German  and  his  son  sat  finishing  their 
supper. 

It  was  now  two  months  since  he  had  been  in- 
stalled as  schoolmaster  in  Tant'  Sannie's  house- 
hold, and  he  had  grown  mighty  and  more 
mighty  day  by  day.  He  visited  the  cabin  no 
more,  sat  close  to  Tant'  Sannie  drinking  coffee 
all  the  evening,  and  walked  about  loftily  with  his 
hands  under  the  coat-tails  of  the  German's  black, 
cloth,  and  failed  to  see  even  a  nigger  who  wished 
him  a  deferential  good-morning.  It  was  there- 
fore with  no  small  surprise  that  the  German  per- 
ceived Bonaparte's  red  nose  at  his  door. 

"  Walk  in,  walk  in,"  he  said  joyfully.  "  Boy, 
boy,  see  if  there  is  coffee  left.  Well,  none.  Make 
a  fire.     We  have  done  supper,  but " 

"  My  dear  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  taking  off 
his  hat,  "  I  came  not  to  sup,  not  for  mere  creat 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  77 

ure  comforts,  but  for  an  hour  of  brotherly  inter- 
course with  a  kindred  spirit.  The  press  of  busi- 
ness and  the  weight  of  thought,  but  they  alone, 
may  sometimes  prevent  me  from  sharing  the 
secrets  of  my  bosom  with  him  for  whom  I  have 
so  great  a  sympathy.     You  perhaps  wonder  when 

I  shall  return  the  two  pounds " 

"  Oh,  no,  no  !  Make  a  fire,  make  a  fire,  boy. 
We  will  have  a  pot  of  hot  coffee  presently,"  said 
the  German,  rubbing  his  hands  and  looking 
about,  not  knowing  how  best  to  show  his  pleas- 
ure at  the  unexpected  visit. 

For  three  weeks  the  German's  diffident  "  Good- 
evening"  had  met  with  a  stately  bow;  the  chin 
of  Bonaparte  lifting  itself  higher  daily;  and  his 
shadow  had  not  darkened  the  cabin  doorway 
since  he  came  to  borrow  the  two  pounds.  The 
German  walked  to  the  head  of  the  bed  and  took 
down  a  blue  bag  that  hung  there.  Blue  bags 
were  a  speciality  of  the  German's.  He  kept 
about  fifty  stowed  away  in  different  corners  of  his 
room— some  filled  with  curious  stones,  some  with 
seeds  that  had  been  in  his  possession  fifteen 
vears,  some  with  rusty  nails,  buckles,  and  bits  ot 
bid  harness— in  all,  a  wonderful  assortment,  but 
highly  prized.  „       . , 

"  We  have  something  here  not  so  bad,  said 
the  German,  smiling  knowingly,  as  he  dived  his 
hand  into  the  bag  and  took  out  a  handful  of  al- 
monds and  raisins;  "I  buy  these  for  my  chick- 
ens. They  increase  in  size,  but  they  still  think 
the  old  man  must  have  something  nice  for  them. 
And  the  old  man— well,  a  big  boy  may  have  a 


78  THE  STORY  OF 

sweet  tooth  sometimes,  may  he  not  ?  Ha,  ha  ! ,r 
said  the  German,  chuckling  at  his  own  joke,  as 
he  heaped  the  plate  with  almonds.  "  Here  is  a 
stone — two  stones  to  crack  them — no  late  patent 
improvement — well,  Adam's  nut-cracker ;  ha,  ha  ! 
But  I  think  we  shall  do.  We  will  not  leave  them 
uncracked.  We  will  consume  a  few  without 
fashionable  improvements." 

Here  the  German  sat  down  on  one  side  of  the 
table,  Bonaparte  on  the  other ;  each  one  with  a 
couple  of  flat  stones  before  him,  and  the  plate 
between  them. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,"  said  the  German,  "  do  not 
be  afraid.  I  do  not  forget  the  boy  at  the  fire  ;  I 
crack  for  him.  The  bag  is  full.  Why,  this  is 
strange,"  he  said,  suddenly,  cracking  open  a  large 
nut ;  ^  three  kernels  !  I  have  not  observed  that 
before.  This  must  be  retained.  This  is  valu- 
able." He  wrapped  the  nut  gravely  in  paper, 
and  put  it  carefully  in  his  waistcoat  pocket. 
"  Valuable,  very  valuable  !  "  he  said,  shaking  his 
head. 

"  Ah,  my  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  what  joy  it 
is  to  be  once  more  in  your  society." 

The  German's  eye  glistened,  and  Bonaparte 
seized  his  hand  and  squeezed  it  warmly.  They 
then  proceeded  to  crack  and  eat.  After  a  while 
Bonaparte  said,  stuffing  a  handful  of  raisins  into 
his  mouth, — 

"  I  was  so  deeply  grieved,  my  dear  friend,  that 
you  and  Tant'  Sannie  had  some  slight  unpleasant- 
ness this  evening." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  the  German  ;  "  it  is  all  right 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  79 

now.  A  few  sheep  missing;  but  I  make  it  good' 
myself.  I  give  my  twelve  sheep,  and  work  in  the 
other  eight." 

"  It  is  rather  hard  that  you  should  have  to 
make  good  the  lost  sheep,"  said  Bonaparte  ;  "  it 
is  no  fault  of  yours." 

''Well,"  said  the  German,  "this  is  the  case. 
Last  evening  I  count  the  sheep  at  the  kraal — 
twenty  are  missing.  I  ask  the  herd ;  he  tells  me 
they  are  with  the  other  flock ;  he  tells  me  so  dis- 
tinctly; how  can  I  think  he  lies  ?  This  afternoon 
I  count  the  other  flock.  The  sheep  are  not  there. 
I  come  back  here  :  the  herd  is  gone  ;  the  sheep 
are  gone.  But  I  cannot — no,  I  will  not—believe 
he  stole  them,"  said  the  German,  growing  sud- 
denly excited.  "  Some  one  else,  but  not  he.  I 
know  that  boy  ;  I  knew  him  three  years.  He  is 
a  good  boy.  I  have  seen  him  deeply  affected  on 
account  of  his  soul.  And  she  would  send  the 
police  after  him  !  I  say  I  would  rather  make  th< 
loss  good  myself.  I  will  not  have  it ;  he  has  fled 
in  fear..  I  know  his  heart.  It  was,"  said  the 
German,  with  a  little  gentle  hesitation,  "  under 
my  words  that  he  first  felt  his  need  of  a  Sav-, 
iour." 

Bonaparte  cracked  some  more  almonds,  then 
said,  yawning,  and  more  as  though  he  asked  for 
the  sake  of  having  something  to  converse  about 
than  from  any  interest  he  felt  in  the  subject, — 

"  And  what  has  become  of  the  herd's  wife  ?  " 

The  German  was  alight  again  in  a  moment. 

"  Yes  ;  his  wife.  She  has  a  child  six  days  old, 
and  Tant'  Sannie  w^uld  turn  her  out  into  the 


So  THE  STORY  OF    " 

fields  this  night.  That,"  said  the  German,  rising, 
"  that  is  what  I  call  cruelty — diabolical  cruelty. 
My  soul  abhors  that  deed.  The  man  that  could 
do  such  a  thing  I  could  run  him  through  with  a 
knife  !  "  said  the  German,  his  gray  eyes  flashing, 
and  his  bushy  black  beard  adding  to  the  murder- 
ous fury  of  his  aspect.  Then  suddenly  subsiding, 
he  said, — "  But  all  is  now  well ;  Tant'  Sannie 
gives  her  word  that  the  maid  shall  remain  for 
some  days.  I  go  to  Oom  Muller's  to-morrow  to 
learn  if  the  sheep  may  not  be  there.  If  they  are 
not,  then  I  return.  They  are  gone ;  that  is  all. 
I  make  it  good." 

"  Tant'  Sannie  is  a  singular  woman,"  said 
Bonaparte,  taking  the  tobacco-bag  the  German 
passed  to  him. 

"  Singular  !  Yes,"  said  the  German  ;  "  but  her 
heart  is  on  her  right  side.  I  have  lived  long 
years  with  her,  and  I  may  say,  I  have  for  her  an 
affection,  which  she  returns.  I  may  say,"  added 
the  German,  with  warmth,  "  I  may  say,  that  there 
is  not  one  soul  on  this  farm  for  whom  I  have  not 
an  affection." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  when  the 
grace  of  God  is  in  our  hearts,  is  it  not  so  with  us 
all?  Do  we  not  love  the  very  worm  we  tread 
upon,  and  as  we  tread  upon  it  ?  Do  we  know 
distinctions  of  race,  or  of  sex,  or  of  color  ?     No  / 

" '  Love  so  amazing,  so  divine, 
It  fills  my  soul,  my  life,  my  all.' " 

After  a  time  he  sank  into  a  less  fervent  mood, 
and  remarked, — 
0*The  colored  female  who  waits  upon  Tanf 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  gj 

Sannie  appears  to  be  of  a  virtuous  disposition, 
an  individual  who -"  *"" 

"  Virtuous !  "  said  the  German ;  "  I  have  con- 
fidence  in  her.  There  is  that  in  her  which  is 
pure,  that  which  is  noble.  The  rich  and  high 
that  walk  this  earth  with  lofty  eyelids  might  ex-, 
change  with  her."  s^~ 

The  German  here  got  up  to  bring  a  coal  for 
Bonaparte's  pipe,  and  they  sat  together  talking 
for  a  while.  At  length  Bonaparte  knocked  the 
ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

"It  is  time  that  I  took  my  departure,  dear 
friend,"  he  said ;  "but,  before  I  do  so,  shall  we 
not  close  this  evening  of  sweet  communion  and 
brotherly  intercourse  by  a  few  words  of  prayer? 
Oh,  how  good  and  how  pleasant  a  thing  it  is  for 
brethren  to  dwell  together  in  unity  !  It  is  like 
the  dew  upon  the  mountains  of  Hermon ;  for 
there  the  Lord  bestowed  a  blessing,  even  life  for 
evermore." 

"  Stay  and  drink  some  coffee,"  said  the  Ger- 
man. 

"  No,  thank  you,  my  friend  ;  I  have  business 
that  must  be  done  to-night,"  said  Bonaparte. 
"  Your  dear  son  appears  to  have  gone  to  sleep. 
He  is  going  to  take  the  wagon  to  the  mill  to- 
morrow !     What  a  little  man  he  is." 

"  A  fine  boy." 

But  though  the  boy  nodded  before  the  fire-ne 
was  not  asleep ;  and  they  all  knelt  down  to  pray. 

When  they  rose  from  their  knees  Bonaparte 
extended  his  hand  to  Waldo,  and  patted  him  on 
the  head. 
6 


82  THE  STORY  0J< 

"  Good-night,  my  lad,"  he  said.  "  As  you  go 
to  the  mill  to-morrow,  we  shall  not  see  you  for 
some  days.  Good-night !  Good-bye  !  The  Lord 
bless  and  guide  you  :  and  may  He  bring  you  back 
to  us  in  safety  to  find  us  all  as  you  have  left  us  /" 
He  laid  some  emphasis  on  the  last  words.  "  And 
you,  my  dear  friend,"  he  added,  turning  with  re- 
doubled warmth  to  the  German,  "  long,  long  shall 
I  look  back  to  this  evening  as  a  time  of  refresh- 
ing from  the  presence  of  the  Lord,  as  an  hour  of 
blessed  intercourse  with  a  brother  in  Jesus.  May 
such  often  return.  The  Lord  bless  you !  "  he 
added,  with  yet  deeper  fervor,   "  richly,  richly." 

Then  he  opened  the  door  and  vanished  out 
into  the  darkness. 

"  He,  he,  he ! "  laughed  Bonaparte,  as  he 
stumbled  over  the  stones.  "  If  there  isn't  the 
rarest  lot  of  fools  on  this  farm  that  ever  God 
Almighty  stuck  legs  to.  He,  he,  he  !  When  the 
worms  come  out  then  the  blackbirds  feed.  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !  "  Then  he  drew  himself  up  :  even  when 
alone  he  liked  to  pose  with  a  certain  dignity  ;  it 
was  second  nature  to  him. 

He  looked  in  at  the  kitchen  door.  The  Hot- 
tentot maid  who  acted  as  interpreter  between 
Tant'  Sannie  and  himself  was  gone,  and  Tant* 
Sannie  herself  was  in  bed. 

"  Never  mind,  Bon,  my  boy,"  he  said,  as  he 
walked  round  to  his  own  room,  "  to-morrow  will 
da     Hethe,iiei" 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  83 

CHAPTER  VIIL 

HE  CATCHES   THE   OLD    BIRD. 

At  four  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  the  German 
rode  across  the  plain,  returning  from  his  search 
for  the  lost  sheep.  He  rode  slowly,  for  he  had 
been  in  the  saddle  since  sunrise  and  was  some- 
what weary,  and  the  heat  of  the  afternoon  made 
his  horse  sleepy  as  it  picked  its  way  slowly  along 
the  sandy  road.  Every  now  and  then  a  great  red 
spider  would  start  out  of  the  karroo  on  one  side 
of  the  path  and  run  across  to  the  other,  but  noth- 
ing else  broke  the  still  monotony.  Presently, 
behind  one  of  the  highest  of  the  milk-bushes  that 
dotted  the  roadside,  the  German  caught  sight  of 
a  Kaffir  woman,  seated  there  evidently  for  such 
shadow  as  the  milk-bush  might  afford  from  the 
sloping  rays  of  the  sun.  The  German  turned  the 
horse's  head  out  of  the  road.  It  was  not  his  way 
to  pass  a  living  creature  without  a  word  of  greet- 
ing. Coming  nearer,  he  found  it  was  no  other 
than  the  wife  of  the  absconding  Kaffir  herd.  She 
had  a  baby  tied  on  her  back  by  a  dirty  strip  of 
red  blanket;  another  strip  hardly  larger  was 
twisted  round  her  waist ;  for  the  rest  her  black 
body  was  naked.  She  was  a  sullen,  ill-looking 
woman,  with  lips  hideously  protruding. 

The  German  questioned  her  as  to  how  she 
came  there.  She  muttered  in  broken  Dutch  that 
she  had  been  turned  away.  Had  she  done  evil } 
m 


84  THE  STORY  OF 

She  shook  her  head  sullenly.  Had  she  had  tood 
given  her  ?  She  grunted  a  negative,  and  fanned 
the  flies  from  her  baby.  Telling  the. woman  to 
remain  where  she  was,  he  turned  his  horse's  head 
to  the  road  and'  rode  off  at  a  furious  pace.  r 

"  Hard-hearted  !  cruel !  Oh,  my  God  !  Is  this 
the  way  ?     Is  this  charity  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  ejaculated  the  old  man  as  he 
rode  on  ;  but,  presently,  his  anger  began  to  evap- 
orate, his  horse's  pace  slackened,  and  by  the  time 
h :  had  reached  his  own  door  he  was  nodding  and 
smiling. 

Dismounting  quickly,  he  went  to  the  great  chest 
wher  his  provisions  were  kept.  Here  he  got  out 
a  litt*  3  meal,  a  little  mealies,  a  few  roaster-cakes. 
These  he  tied  up  in  three  blue  handkerchiefs, 
and  putting  them  into  a  sail-cloth  bag,  he  strung 
them  over  his  shoulders.  Then  he  looked  cir- 
cumspectly out  at  the  door.  It  was  very  bad  to 
be  discovered  in  the  act  of  giving ;  it  made  him 
red  up  to  th^  roots  of  his  old  grizzled  hair.  No 
one  was  about,  however,  so  he  rode  off  again. 
Beside  the  milk-bush  sat  the  Kaffir  woman  still — 
like  Hagar,  he  thought,  thrust  out  by  her  mistress 
in  the  wilderness  to  die.  Telling  her  to  loosen 
the  handkerchief  from  her  head,  he  poured  into 
it  the  contents  of  his  bag.  The  woman  tied  it 
up  in  sullen  silence. 

"  You  must  try  and  get  to  the  next  farm,"  said 
the  German. 

The  woman  shook  her  head  ;  she  would  sleep 
in  the  field. 

The  German  reflected.     Kaffir  women  were 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  85 

accustomed  to  sleep  in  the  open  air  ;  but  then, 
the  child  was  small,  and  after  so  hot  a  day  the 
night  might  be  chilly.  That  she  would  creep 
back  to  the  huts  at  the  homestead  when  the 
darkness  favored  her,  the  German's  sagacity  did 
not  make  evident  to  him.  He  took  off  the  old 
brown  salt-and-pepper  coat,  and  held  it  out  to  her 
The  woman  received  it  in  silence  and  laid  it 
across  her  knee. .  "  With  that  they  will  sleep 
warmly  ;  not  so  bad.  Ha,  ha  !  "  said  the  German. 
And  he  rode  home,  nodding  his  head  in  a  manner 
that  would  have  made  any  other  man  dizzy. 

"I  wish  he  would  not  come  back  to-night," 
said  Em,  her  face  wet  with  tears. 

"  It  will  be  just  the  same  if  he  comes  back  to- 
morrow," said  Lyndall. 

The  two  girls  sat  on  the  step  of  the  cabin  wait- 
ing for  the  German's  return.  Lyndall  shaded  her 
eyes  with  her  hand  from  the  sunset  light. 

"  There  he  comes,"  she  said,  "  whistling  '  Ach 
Jerusalem  du  schone '  so  loud  I  can  hear  him 
here." 

"  Perhaps  he  has  found  the  sheep." 
"  Found  them  !  "   said   Lyndall.      "  He  would 
whistle  just  so  if   he   knew   he   had  to   die   to- 
night." 

"  You  look  at  the  sunset,  eh,  chickens  ? "  the 
German  said,  as  he  came  up  at  a  smart  canter. 
"  Ah,  yes,  that  is  beautiful ! "  he  added,  as  he 
dismounted,  pausing  for  a  moment  with  his  hand 
on  the  saddle  to  look  at  the  evening  sky,  where 
the  sun  shot  up  long  naming  streaks,  between 
which   and  the  sye  thin  yellow  clouds  floated. 


86  THE  STOR  Y  OF 

u  Ei !  you  weep  ?  "  said  the  German,  as  the  girls 
ran  up  to  him. 

Before  they  had  time  to  reply  the  voice  of  Tant' 
Sannie  was  heard. 

"  You  child,  of  the  child,  of  the  child  of  a 
Kaffir's  dog,  come  here  !  " 

The  German  looked  up.  He  thought  the 
Dutch-woman,  come  out  to  cool  herself  in  the 
yard,  called  to  some  misbehaving  servant.  The 
old  man  looked  round  to  see  who  it  might  be. 

"  You  old  vagabond  of  a  praying  German,  are 
you  deaf  ?  " 

Tant'  Sannie  stood  before  the  steps  of  the 
kitchen ;  upon  them  sat  the  lean  Hottentot,  upon 
the  highest  stood  Bonaparte  Blenkins,  both  hands 
folded  under  the  tails  of  his  coat,  and  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  sunset  sky. 

The  German  dropped  the  saddle  on  the 
ground. 

"  Bish,  bish,  bish  !  what  may  this  be  ? "  he 
said,  and  walked  toward  the  house.  "  Very 
strange  !  " 

The  girls  followed  him :  Em  still  weeping ; 
Lyndall  with  her  face  rather  white  and  her  eyes 
wide  open. 

"  And  I  have  the  heart  of  a  devil,  did  you  say  ? 
You  could  run  me  through  with  a  knife,  could 
you?"  cried  the  Dutch-woman.  "I  could  not 
drive  the  Kaffir  maid  away  because  I  was  afraid 
of  you,  was  I  ?  Oh,  you  miserable  rag  !  I  loved 
you,  did  I?  I  would  have  liked  to  marry  you, 
would  I  ?  would  I  ?  would  I  ?  "  cried  the  Boer- 
woman  ;  "  you  cat's  tail,  you  dog's  paw  !     Be  near 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  87 

my  house  to-morrow  morning  when  the  sun  rises/' 
she  gasped,  "  my  Kaffirs  will  drag  you  through 
the  sand.  Thpy-jaoiilrl  Hn  it  gig/11  y.  any  of  them, 
for  a  bit  of  tobacco,  for  all  your  prayings  with 

them."  — 

■ — "  1  am"  bewildered,  I  am  bewildered,"  said  the 
German,  standing  before  her  and  raising  his  hand 
to  his  forehead  ;     "  I — I  do  not  understand." 

"  Ask  him,  ask  him  !  "  cried  Tant'  Sannie, 
pointing  to  Bonaparte  ;  "  he  knows.  You  thought 
he  could  not  make  me  understand,  but  he  did,  he 
did,  you  old  fool )  I  know  enough  English  for 
that.  You  be  here,-"'  shcuted  the  Dutch-woman, 
"when  the  morning  star  rises,  «ind  I  will  let  my 
Kaffirs  take  you  out  and  drag  you,  u}\  ikere  is 
not  one  bone  left  in  your  old  body  that  is  not 
broken  as  fine  as  babootie-meat,  you  old  beggar  ! 
All  your  rags  are  not  worth  that  they  should  be 
thrown  out  on  to  the  ash-heap,"  cried  the  Boer- 
woman  ;  "but  I  will  have  them  for  my  sheep. 
Not  one  rotten  hoof  of  your  old  mare  do  you  take 
with  you  ;  I  will  have  her — all,  all  for  my  sheep 
that  you  have  lost,  you  godless  thing  ! " 

*  The  Boer-woman  wiped  the  moisture  from  her 
mouth  with  the  palm  of  her  hand. 

The  German  turned  to  Bonaparte,  who  still 
stood  on  the  step  absorbed  in  the  beauty  of  the 
sunset. 

"  Do  not  address  me  ;  do  not  approach  me, 
lost  man,"  said  Bonaparte,  not  moving  his  eye 
nor  lowering  his  chin.  "  There  is  a  crime  from 
which  all  nature  revolts ;  there  is  a  crime  whose 
name  is  loathsome  to  the  human  ear — that  crime 


88  THE  STORY  OF 

is  yours  ;  that  crime  is  ingratitude.  This  woman 
'has  been  your  benefactress  ;  on  her  farm  you 
have  lived  ;  after  her  sheep  you  have  looked  ;  into 
her  house  you  have  been  allowed  to  enter  and 
hold  Divine  service — an  honor  of  which  you  were 
never  worthy  ;  and  how  have  you  rewarded  her  ? 
— Basely,  basely,  basely  !  " 

"  But  it  is  all  false,  lies  and  falsehoods.  I  must, 
I  will  speak,"  said  the  German,  suddenly  looking 
round  bewildered.  "  Do  I  dream  ?  Are  you 
mad  ?     What  may  it  be  ?  " 

"  Go,  dog,"  cried  the  Dutch-woman  ;  "  I  would 
have  been  a  rich  woman  this  day  if  it  had  not 
been  for  your  laziness.  Praying  with  the  Kaffirs 
behind  the  kraal  walls  !     Go,  you  Kaffir's  dog  !  " 

"  But  what  then  is  the  matter  ?  What  may 
have  happened  since  I  left  ?  "  said  the  German, 
turning  to  the  Hottentot  woman  who  sat  upon 
the  step. 

She  was  his  friend ;  she  would  tell  him  kindly 
the  truth.  The  woman  answered  by  a  loud,  ring- 
ing laugh. 

"  Give  it  him,  old  missis  !     Give  it  him  !  " 

It  was  so  nice  to  see  the  white  man  who  had 
been  master  hunted  down.  The  colored  woman 
laughed,  and  threw  a  dozen  mealie  grains  into 
her  mouth  to  chew. 

All  anger  and  excitement  faded  from  the  old 
man's  face.  He  turned  slowly  away  and  walked 
down  the  little  path  to  his  cabin,  with  his  shoulders 
bent ;  it  was  all  dark  before  him.  He  stumbled 
over  the  threshold  of  his  own  well-known  door. 

Em?  sobbing  bitterly,  would  have  followed  him; 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  89 

but  the  Boer-woman  prevented  her  by  a  flood  of 
speech  which  convulsed  the  Hottentot,  so  low 
were  :+s  images. 

"  Come,  Em,"  said  Lyndall,  lifting  her  small, 
proud  head,  "  let  us  go  in.  We  will  not  stay  to 
hear  such  language." 

She  looked  in  to  the  Boer-woman's  eyes.  Tant* 
Sannie  understood  the  meaning  of  the  look  if  not 
the  words.  She  waddled  after  them,  and  caught 
Em  by  the  arm.  She  had  struck  Lyndall  once 
years  before,  and  had  never  done  it  again,  so  she 
took  Em.  <^. 

**  *:  So  you  will  defy  me  too,  will  you,  you  English-^^N 
man's  ugliness  ! "  she  cried,  as  with  one  hand  / 
she  forced  the  child  down,  and  held  her  head  / 
tightly  against  her  knee  :  with  the  other  she  beat  / 
L^her  first  upon  one  cheek,  and  then  upon  the  / 
other. 

For  one  instant  Lyndall  looked  on,  then  she 
laid  her  small  fingers  on  the  Boer-woman's  arm. 
With  the  exertion  of  half  its  strength  Tant' 
Sannie  might  have  flung  the  girl  back  upon  the 
stones.  It  was  not  the  power  of  the  slight  fingers, 
tightly  though  they  clinched  her  broad  wrist^-so 
tightly  that  at  bed-time  the  marks  were  still  there 
but  the  Boer-woman  looked  into  the  clear  eyes 
and  at  the  quivering  white  lips,  and  with  a  half- 
surprised  curse,  relaxed  her  hold.  The  girl  drew 
Em's  arm  through  her  own. 

"  Move  ! "  she  said  to  Bonaparte,  who  stood 
in  the  door  ;  and  he,  Bonaparte  the  invincible,  in 
the  hour  of  his  triumph,  moved  to  give  her 
place. 


90  THE  STORY  OP 

The  Hottentot  ceased  to  laugh,  and  an  uncom- 
fortable silence  fell  on  all  the  three  in  the  door< 
way. 

Once  in  their  room,  Em  sat  down  on  the  floof 
and  wailed  bitterly.  Lyndall  lay  on  the  bed  with 
her  arm  drawn  across  her  eye's,  very  white  and  still. 

"  Hoo,  hoo  !  "  cried  Em  ;  "  and  they  won't  let 
him  take  the  gray  mare ;  and  Waldo  has  gone  to 
the  mill.  Hoo,  hoo!  And  perhaps  they  won't 
let  us  go  and  say  good-bye  to  him.  Hoo,  hoo, 
hoo  !  " 

"  I  wish  you  would  be  quiet,"  said  Lyndall, 
without  moving.  "  Does  it  give  you  such  felicity 
to  let  Bonaparte  know  he  is  hurting  yon  ?  We 
will  ask  no  one.  It  will  be  supper  time  soon. 
Listen, — and  when  you  hear  the  chink  of  the 
knives  and  forks  we  will  go  out  and  see  him." 

Em  suppressed  her  sobs  and  listened  intently, 
kneeling  at  the  door.  Suddenly  some  one  came 
to  the  window  and  put  the  shutter  up. 

"  Who  was  that  ? "  said  Lyndall,  starting. 

"  The  girl,  I  suppose,"  said  Em.  "  How  early 
she  is  this  evening  !  " 

But  Lyndall  sprang  from  the  bed  and  seized 
the  handle  of  the  door,  shaking  it  fiercely.  The 
door  was  locked  on  the  outside.  She  ground  her 
teeth. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  asked  Em. 

The  room  was  in  perfect  darkness  now. 

''Nothing,"  said  Lyndall,  quietly,  "  only  they 
have  locked  us  in." 

She  turned,  and  went  back  to  bed  again.  But 
ere  long  Em  heard  a  sound  of  movement.     Lyn- 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  9 1 

dall  had  climbed  up  into  the  window,  and  with 
her  fingers  felt  the  woodwork  that  surrounded 
the  panes.  Slipping  down,  the  girl  loosened  the 
iron  knob  from  the  foot  of  the  bedstead,  and 
climbing  up  again,  she  broke  with  it  every  pane 
of  glass  in  the  window,  beginning  at  the  top  and 
ending  at  the  bottom. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  asked  Em,  who  heard 
the  falling  fragments. 

Her  companion  made  her  no  reply  ;  but  leaned 
on  every  little  cross-bar,  which  cracked  and  gave 
way  beneath  her.  Then  she  pressed  with  all  her 
strength  against  the  shutter.  She  had  thought 
the  wooden  buttons  would  give  way,  but  by  the 
clinking  sound  she  knew  that  the  iron  bar  had 
been  put  across.  She  was  quite  quiet  for  a  time. 
Clambering  down,  she  took  from  the  table  a  small 
one-bladed  pen-knife,  with  which  she  began  to 
peck  at  the  hard  wood  of  the  shutter. 

"  What  are  you  doing  now  ? "  asked  Em,  who 
had  ceased  crying  in  her  wonder,  and  had  drawn 
near. 

"  Trying  to  make  a  hole,"  was  the  short  reply. 

"  Do  you  think  you  will  be  able  to  ? " 

"  No ;  but  I  am  trying." 

In  an  agony  of  suspense  Em  waited.  For  ten 
minutes  Lyndall  pecked.  The  hole  was  three- 
eighths  of  an  inch  deep— then  the  blade  sprang 
into  ten  pieces. 

"What  has  happened  now?"  asked  Em,  blub- 
bering afresh. 

"  Nothing,"  said  Lyndall.  "  Bring  me  my 
rright-.gown,  a  piece  of  paper,  and  the  matches." 


92  THE  STORY  OF 

Wondering,  Em  fumbled  about  till  she  found 
them. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them  ? "  sh© 
whispered. 

"  Burn  down  the  window." 

"  But  won't  the  whole  house  take  fire,  andbunv 
too  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  will  it  not  be  very  wicked  ? " 

"  Yes,  very.     And  I  do  not  care." 

She  arranged  the  night-gown  carefully  in  the 
corner  of  the  window,  with  the  chips  of  the  frame 
about  it.  There  was  only  one  match  in  the  box. 
She  drew  it  carefully  along  the  wall.  For  a 
moment  it  burnt  up  blue,  and  showed  the  tiny 
face  with  its  glistening  eyes.  She  held  it  care- 
fully to  the  paper.  For  "an  instant  it  burnt  up 
brightly,  then  flickered  and  went  out.  She  blew 
the  spark,  but  it  died  also.  Then  she  threw  the 
paper  on  to  the  ground,  trod  on  it,  and  went  to 
her  bed,  and  began  to  undress. 

Em  rushed  to  the  door,  knocking  against  it 
wildly. 

"  Oh,  Tant'  Sannie  !  Tant'  Sannie  !  Oh,  let 
us  out !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  Lyndall,  what  are  we 
to  do  ? " 

Lyndall  wiped  a  drop  of  blood  off  the  lip  she 
had  bitten. 

"  I  am  going  to  sleep,"  she  said.  "  If  you  like 
to  sit  there  and  howl  till  the  morning,  do.  Per^ 
haps  you  will  find  that  it  helps  ;  I  never  heard 
that  howling  helped  any  one." 

Long  after,  when  Em  herself  had  gone  to  bed 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  93 

and  was  almost  asleep,  Lyndall  came  and  stood 
at  her  bedside. 

"  Here,"  she  said,  slipping  a  little  pot  of 
powder  into  her  hand;  "rub  some  on  to  your 
face.     Does  it  not  burn  where  she  struck  you  ?  " 

Then  she  crept  back  to  her  own  bed.  Long, 
long  after,  when  Em  was  really  asleep,  she  lay 
still  awake,  and  folded  her  hands  on  her  little 
breast,  and  muttered, — 

"  When  that  day  comes,  and  I  am  strong,  I 
will  hate  everything  that  has  power,  and  help 
everything  that  is  weak."  And  she  bit  her  lip 
again. 

The  German  looked  out  at  the  cabin  door  for 
the  last  time  that  night.  Then  he  paced  the 
room  slowly  and  sighed.  Then  he  drew  out  pen 
and  paper,  and  sat  down  to  write,  rubbing  his  old 
gray  eyes  with  his  knuckles  before  he  began. 

"  My  Chickens, 

"  You  did  not  come  to  say  good-bye 
to  the  old  man.'  Might  you  ?  Ah,  well,  there  is 
a  land  where  they  part  no  more,  where  saints  im- 
mortal reign. 

"  I  sit  here  alone,  and  I  think  of  you.  Will 
you  forget  the  old  man  ?  When  you  wake  to- 
morrow he  will  be  far  away.  The  old  horse  is 
lazy,  but  he  has  his  stick  to  help  him ;  that  is 
three  legs.  He  comes  back  one  day  with  gold 
and  diamonds.  Will  you  welcome  him  ?  Well, 
we  shall  see.  I  go  to  meet  Waldo.  He  comes 
back  with  the  wagon;  then  he  follows  me.  Poor 
boy  I     God    knows.     There    is    a    land   where 


94  THE  STORY  OF 

all  things  are  made  right,  but  that  land  is  not 
here. 

"  My  little  children,  serve  the  Saviour ;  give 
your  hearts  to  Him  while  you  are  yet  young. 
Life  is  short. 

"  Nothing  is  mine,  otherwise  I  would  say, 
Lyndall,  take  my  books,  Em  my  stones.  Now  I 
say  nothing.  The  things  are  mine  :  it  is  not 
righteous,  God  knows  !  But  I  am  silent.  Let  it 
be.     But  I  feel  it,  I  must  say  I  feel  it. 

"  Do  not  cry  too  much  for  the  old  man.  He 
goes  out  to  seek  his  fortune,  and  comes  back  with 
it  in  a  bag,  it  may  be. 

"  I  love  my  children.  Do  they  think  of  me  ? 
I  am  Old  Otto,  who  goes  out  to  seek  his  fortune. 

"  O.  F." 

Having  concluded  this  quaint  production,  he 
put  it  where  the  children  would  find  it  the  next 
morning,  and  proceeded  to  prepare  his  bundle. 
He  never  thought  of  entering  a  protest  against 
the  loss  of  his  goods  :  like  a  child  he  submitted, 
and  wept.  He  had  been  there  eleven  years,  and 
it  was  hard  to  go  away.  He  spread  open  on  the 
bed  a  blue  handkerchief,  and  on  it  put  one  by  one 
the  things  he  thought  most  necessary  and  im- 
portant :  a  little  bag  of  curious  seeds,  which  he 
meant  to  plant  some  day,  an  old  German  hymn- 
book,  three  misshapen  stones  that  he  greatly 
valued,  a  Bible,  a  shirt,  and  two  handkerchiefs ; 
then  there  was  room  for  nothing  more.  He  tied 
up  the  bundle  tightly  and  put  it  on  a  chair  by  ira 
bedside. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  9^ 

>. 

"  That  is  not  much ;  they  cannot  say  I  take 
much,"  he  said,  looking  at  it. 

He  put  his  knotted  stick  beside  it,  his  blue 
tobacco-bag  and  his  short  pipe,  and  then  inspected 
his  coats.  He  had  two  left — a  moth-eate^,  over- 
coat and  a  black  alpaca  out  at  the  elbows.  Ho 
decided  for  the  overcoat :  it  was  warm  certainly, 
but  then  he  could  carry  it  over  his  arm,  and  only 
put  it  on  when  he  met  some  one  along  the  road. 
It  was  more  respectable  than  the  black  alpaca. 
He  hung  the  great-coat  over  the  back  of  the  chair, 
and  stuffed  a  hard  bit  of  roaster-cake  under  the 
knot  of  the  bundle,  and  then  his  preparations 
were  completed.  The  German  stood  contemplat- 
ing them  with  much  satisfaction.  He  had  almost 
forgotten  his  sorrow  at  leaving  in  his  pleasure  at 
preparing.  Suddenly  he  started  ;  an  expression 
of  intense  pain  passed  over  his  face.  He  drew 
back  his  left  arm  quickly,  and  then  pressed  his 
right  hand  upon  his  breast. 

"  Ah,  the  sudden  pang  again,"  he  said. 

His  face  was  white,  but  it  quickly  regained  its 
color.  Then  the  old  man  busied  himself  in  put- 
ting everything  right. 

"  I  will  lea^e  it  neat.  They  shall  not  say  I  did 
not  leave  it  neat,"  he  said.  Even  the  little  bags 
of  seeds  on  the  mantel-piece  he  put  in  rows  and 
dusted.  Then  he  undressed  and  got  into  bed. 
Under  his  pillow  was  a  little  story-book.  He 
drew  it  forth.  To  the  old  German  a  story  was 
no  story.  Its  events  were  as  real  and  as  impor- 
tant to  himself  as  the  matters  of  his  own  life. 
He  could  not  go  away  without  knowing  whether 


96  .   THE  STORY  OF 

that  wicked  Earl  relented,  and  whether  the  Baron 
married  Emilina.  So  he  adjusted  his  spectacles 
and  began  to  read.  Occasionally,  as  his  feelings 
became  too  strongly  moved,  he  ejaculated,  "Ah, 
I  thought  so  ! — That  was  a  rogue  X  I  saw  it  be- 
fore ! — I  knew  it  from  the  beginning  !  "  More 
than  half  an  hour  had  passed  when  he  looked  up 
to  the  silver  watch  at  the  top  of  his  bed. 

"  The  march  is  long  to-morrow ;  this  will  not 
do,"  he  said,  taking  off  his  spectacles  and  putting 
them  carefully  into  the  book  to  mark  the  place. 
"  This  will  be  good  reading  as  I  walk  along  to- 
morrow," he  added,  as  he  stuffed  the  book  into 
the  pocket  of  the  great-coat ;  "very  good  reading.'*' 
He  nodded  his  head  and  lay  down.  He  thought 
a  little  of  his  own  troubles,  a  good  deal  of  the 
two  little  girls  he  was  leaving,  of  the  Earl,  of 
Emilina,  of  the  Baron:  but  he  was  soon  asleep- 
sleeping  as  peacefully  as  a  little  child  upon  whose 
innocent  soul  sorrow  and  care  cannot  rest. 

It  was  very  quiet  in  the  room.  The  coals  in 
the  fireplace  threw  a  dull  red  light  across  the 
floor  upon  the  red  lions  on  the  quilt.  Eleven 
o'clock  came,  and  the  room  was  very  still.  One 
o'clock  came.  The  glimmer  had  died  out,  though 
the  ashes  were  still  warm,  and  the  room  was  very 
dark.  The  gray  mouse,  who  had  its  hole  under 
the  tool-box,  came  out  and  sat  on  the  sacks  in  the 
corner  ;  then,  growing  bolder,  the  room  was  so 
dark,  it  climbed  the  chair  at  the  bedside,  nibbled 
at  the  roaster-cake,  took  one  bite  quickly  at  the 
candle,  and  then  sat  on  his  haunches  listening. 
It  heard  the  even  breathing  of  the  old  man,  and 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  97 

the  steps  of  the  hungry  Kaffir  dog  going  his  last 
round  in  search  of  a  bone  or  a  skin  that  had 
been  forgotten  ;  and  it  heard  the  white  hen  call 
out  as  the  wild  cat  ran  away  with  one  of  her 
brood,  and  it  heard  the  chicken  cry.  Then  the 
gray  mouse  went  back  to  its  hole  under  the -tool- 
box, and  the  room  was  quiet.  And  two  o'clock 
came.  By  that  time  the  night  was  grown  dull 
and  cloudy.  The  wild  cat  had  gone  to  its  home 
on  the  "  kopje ;  "  the  Kaffir  dog  had  found  a 
bone,  and  lay  gnawing  it. 

An  intense  quiet  reigned  everywhere.  Only 
in  her  room  the  Boer-woman  tossed  her  great 
arms  in  her  sleep ;  for  she  dreamed  that  a  dark 
shadow  with  outstretched  wings  fled  slowly  over 
her  house,  and  she  moaned  and  shivered.  And 
the  night  was  very  still. 

But,  quiet  as  all  places  were,  there  was  a  quite 
peculiar  quiet  in  the  German's  room.  Though 
you  strained  your  ear  most  carefully  you  caught 
no  sound  of  breathing. 

He  was  not  gone,  for  the  old  coat  still  hung  on 
the  chair — the  coat  that  was  to  be  put  on  when* 
he  met  any  one ;  and  the  bundle  and  stick  were* 
ready  for  to-morrow's  long  march.  The  old  Ger- 
man himself  lay  there,  his  wavy  black  hair  just 
touched  with  gray  thrown  back  upon  the  pillow* 
The  old  face  was  lying  there  alone  in  the  dark^ 
smiling  like  a  little  child's — oh,  so  peacefully* 
There  is  a  stranger  whose  coming,  they  say,  is 
worse  than  all  the  ills  of  life,  from  whose  pres- 
ence we  flee  away  trembling;  but  he  comes  very 
tenderly  sometimes.     And  it  seemed  almost  as 

7 


98  THE  STORY  OF 

though  Death  had  known  and  loved  the  old  man, 
so  gently  it  touched  him.  And  how  could  it  deal 
hardly  with  him — the  loving,  simple,  childlike  old 
man? 

So  it  smoothed  out  the  wrinkles  that  were  ii»  the 
old  forehead,  and  fixed  the  passing  smile,  and 
sealed  the  eyes  that  they  might  not  weep  again ; 
and  then  the  short  sleep  of  time  was  melted  into 
the  long,  long  sleep  of  eternity. 

"  How  has  he  grown  so  young  in  this  one 
night  ? "  they  said  when  they  found  him  in  the 
morning. 

Yes,  dear  old  man ;  to  such  as  you  time  brings 
no  age.  You  die  with  the  purity  and  innocence 
of  your  childhood  upon  you,  though  you  die  in 
your  gray  hairs. 

CHAPTER  IX.  v 

HE     SEES      A      GHOST. 

Bonaparte  stood  on  the  ash-heap.  He  espied 
across  the  plain  a  moving  speck,  and  he  chucked 
his  coat-tails  up  and  down  in  expectancy  of  a 
scene. 

The  wagon  came  on  slowly.  Waldo  laid  curled 
among  the  sacks  at  the  back  of  the  wagon,  the 
hand  in  his  breast  resting  on  the  sheep-shearing 
machine.  It  was  finished  now.  The  right 
thought  had  struck  him  the  day  before  as  he  sat, 
half  asleep,  watching  the  water  go  over  the  mill- 
wheel.  He  muttered  to  himself  with  half-closed 
eyes,— 


AN  AFRICAN  FA RM.  99 

"Tomorrow  smooth  the  cogs — tighten  the 
screws  a  little— show  it  to  them."  Then  after  a 
pause — "  Over  the  whole  world— the  whole  world 
---mine,  that  I  have  made  ! "  He  pressed  the 
little  wheels  and  pulleys  in  his  pocket  till  they 
cracked.  Presently  his  muttering  became  louder 
— "  And  fifty  pounds — a  black  hat  for  my  dadda 
—for  Lyndall  a  blue  silk,  very  light ;  and  one 
purple  like  the  earth-bells,  and  white  shoes." 
He  muttered  on — "  A  box  full,  full  of  books. 
They  shall  tell  me  all,  all,  all,"  he  added,  moving 
his  fingers  desiringly :  "  why  the  crystals  grow  in 
such  beautiful  shapes  ;  why  lightning  runs  to  the 
iron ;  why  black  people  are  black ;  why  the  sun- 
light makes  things  warm.  I  shall  read,  read, 
read,"  he  muttered  slowly.  Then  came  over  him 
suddenly  what  he  called  "  The  Presence  of  God ;  " 
a  sense  of  a  good,  strong  something  folding  him 
round.  He  smiled  through  his  half-shut  eyes. 
"  Ah,  Father,  my  own  Father,  it  is  so  sweet  to 
feel  You,  like  the  warm  sunshine.  The  Bibles 
and  books  cannot  tell  of  you  and  all  I  feel  you. 
They  are  mixed  with  men's  words  ;  but  you " 

His  muttering  sank  into  inaudible  confusion, 
till,  opening  his  eyes  wide,  it  struck  him  that  the 
brown  plain  he  looked  at  was  the  old  home  farm. 
For  half  an  hour  they  had  been  riding  in  it,  and 
he  had  not  known  it.  He  roused  the  leader,  who 
sat  nodding  on  the  front  of  the  wagon  in  the 
early  morning  sunlight.  They  were  within  half  a 
mile  of  the  homestead.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  been  gone  from  them  all  a  year.  He 
fancied  he  could  see  Lyndall  standing  on  the 


IOO  THE  STORY  OF 

brick  wall  to  watch  for  him ;  his  father,  passing 
from  one  house  to  the  other,  stopping  to  look. 

He  called  aloud  to  the  oxen.  For  each  one  at 
home  he  had  brought  something.  For  his  father 
a  piece  of  tobacco,  bought  at  the  shop  by  the  mill ; 
for  Em  a  thimble  ;  for  Lyndall  a  beautiful  flower 
dug  out  by  the  roots,  at  a  place  where  they  had 
"  out-spanned  ;  "  for  Tant'  Sannie  a  handkerchief. 
When  they  drew  near  the  house  he  threw  the  whip 
to  the  Kaffir  leader,  and  sprang  from  the  side  of 
the  wagon  to  run  on.  Bonaparte  stopped  him  as 
he  ran  past  the  ash-heap. 

"  Good-morning,  my  dear  boy.  Where  are  you 
running  to  so  fast  with  your  rosy  cheeks  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  up  at  him,  glad  even  to  see 
Bonaparte. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  cabin,"  he  said,  out  of 
breath. 

"  You  won't  find  them  in  just  now— not  your 
good  old  father,"  said  Bonaparte. 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  asked  the  lad. 

"  There,  beyond  the  camps,"  said  Bonaparte, 
waving  his  hand  oratorically  toward  the  stone- 
walled ostrich-camps. 

"  What  is  he  doing  there  ?  "  asked  the  boy. 

Bonaparte  patted  him  on  the  cheek  kindly. 

"  We  could  not  keep  him  any  more,  it  was  too 
hot.  We've  buried  him,  my  boy,"  said  Bonaparte, 
touching  with  his  finger  the  boy's  cheek.  "  We 
couldn't  keep  him  any  more.  He,  he,  he ! " 
laughed  Bonaparte,  as  the  boy  fled  away  along 
the  low  stone  wail,  almost  furtively,  as  one  in 
fear. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  ioi 


At  five  o'clock  Borraparte  knelt  before  a  box  in 
the  German's  room.     He  was  busily  unpacking  it. 

It  had  been  agreed  upon  between  Tant'  Sannie 
and  himself,  that  now  the  German  was  gone  he, 
Bonaparte,  was  to  be  no  longer  schoolmaster,  but 
overseer  of  the  farm.  In  return  for  his  past 
scholastic  labors  he  had  expressed  himself  will- 
ing to  take  possession  of  the  dead  man's  goods 
and  room.  Tant'  Sannie  hardly  liked  the  arrange- 
ment. She  had  a  great  deal  more  respect  for  the 
German  dead  than  the  German  living,  and  would 
rather  his  goods  had  been  allowed  to  descend 
peacefully  to  his  son.  For  she  was  a  firm  be- 
liever in  the  chinks  in  the  world  above,  where  not 
only  ears,  but  eyes  might  be  applied  to  see  how 
things  went  on  in  this  world  below.  She  never 
felt  sure  how  far  the  spirit-world  might  overlap 
this  world  of  sense,  and,  as  a  rule,  prudently 
abstained  from  doing  anything  which  might 
offend  unseen  auditors.  For  this  reason  she 
abstained  from  ill-using  the  dead  Englishman's 
daughter  and  niece,  and  for  this  reason  she  would 
rather  the  boy  had  had  his  father's  goods.  But 
it  was  hard  to  refuse  Bonaparte  anything  when 
she  and  he  sat  so  happily  together  in  the  evening 
drinking  coffee,  Bonaparte  telling  her  in  the 
broken  Dutch  he  was  fast  learning  how  he  adored 
fat  women,  and  what  a  splendid  farmer  he 
was. 

So  at  five  o'clock  on  this  afternoon  Bonaparte 
knelt  in  the  German's  room. 

f,i  Somewhere  here  it  is,"  he  said^  as  he  packed 


102  THE  STORY  OF 

the  old  clothes  carefully  out  of  the  box,  and, 
finding  nothing,  packed  them  in  again.  "  Some- 
where in  this  room  it  is;  and  if  it's  here  Bon- 
aparte  finds  it,"  he  repeated.  "  You  didn't  stay- 
here  all  these  years  without  making  a  little  pile 
somewhere,  my  lamb.  You  weren't  such  a  fool 
as  you  looked.     Oh,  no  !  "  said  Bonaparte. 

He  now  walked  about  the  room,  diving  his 
fingers  in  everywhere ;  sticking  them  into  the 
great  crevices  in  the  wall  and  frightening  out  the 
spiders  ;  rapping  them  against  the  old  plaster  till 
it  cracked  and  fell  in  pieces  ;  peering  up  the 
chimney,  till  the  soot  dropped  on  his  bald  head 
and  blackened  it.  He  felt  in  little  blue  bags ;  he 
tried  to  raise  the  hearth-stone  ;  he  shook  each 
book,  till  the  old  leaves  fell  down  in  showers  on 
the  floor. 

It  was  getting  dark,  and  Bonaparte  stood  with 
his  finger  on  his  nose  reflecting.  Finally  he 
walked  to  the  door,  behind  which  hung  the 
trousers  and  waistcoat  the  dead  man  had  last 
worn.  He  had  felt  in  them,  but  hurriedly,  just 
after  the  funeral  the  day  before ;  he  would  ex- 
amine them  again.  Sticking  his  fingers  into  the 
waistcoat  pockets,  he  found  in  one  corner  a  hole. 
Pressing  his  hand  through  it,  between  the  lining 
and  the  cloth,  he  presently  came  into  contact 
with  something.  Bonaparte  drew  it  forth — a 
small,  square  parcel,  sewed  up  in  sail-cloth.  He 
gazed  at  it,  squeezed  it ;  it  cracked,  as  though 
full  of  bank-notes.  He  put  it  quickly  into  his 
own  waistcoat  pocket,  and  peeped  over  the  half- 
door  to  see  if  there  was  any  one  coming.     There 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  103 

was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  last  rays  of  yellow 
sunset  light,  painting  the  karroo  bushes  in  the 
plain,  and  shining  on  the  ash-heap,  where  the 
fowls  were  pecking.  He  turned  and  sat  down  on 
the  nearest  chair,  and,  taking  out  his  pen-knife, 
ripped  the  parcel  open.  The  first  thing  that  fell 
was  a  shower  of  yellow  faded  papers.  Bonaparte 
opened  them  carefully  one  by  one,  and  smoothed 
them  out  on  his  knee.  There  was  something 
very  valuable  to  be  hidden  so  carefully,  though 
the  German  characters  he  could  not  decipher. 
When  he  came  to  the  last  one,  he  felt  there  was 
something  hard  in  it. 

"  You've  got  it,  Bon,  my  boy !  you've  got  it !  " 
he  cried,  slapping  his  leg  hard.  Edging  nearer 
to  the  door,  for  the  light  was  fading,  he  opened 
the  paper  carefully.  There  was  nothing  inside 
but  a  plain  gold  wedding-ring. 

"  Better  than  nothing  !  "  said  Bonaparte,  trying 
to  put  it  on  his  little  finger,  which,  however, 
proved  too  fat. 

He  took  it  off  and  set  it  down  on  the  table 
before  him,  and  looked  at  it  with  his  crosswise 
eyes. 

"  When  that  auspicious  hour,  Sannie,"  he  said, 
"  shall  have  arrived,  when,  panting,  I  shall  lead 
thee,  lighted  by  Hymen's  torch,  to  the  connubial 
altar,  then  upon  thy  fair  amaranthine  finger,  my 
joyous  bride,  shall  this  ring  repose. 

"  Thy  fair  body,  oh,  my  girl, 
Shall  Bonaparte  possess ; 
His  fingers  in  thy  money-bags, 
He  therein,  too,  shall  mess." 


i04  THE  STORY  OF 

Having  given  utterance  to  this  flood  of  poesy, 
he  sat  lost  in  joyous  reflection. 

"  He  therein,  too,  shall  mess,"  he  repeated, 
meditatively. 

At  this  instant,  as  Bonaparte  swore,  and  swore 
truly  to  the  end  of  his  life,  a  slow  and  distinct 
rap  was  given  on  the  crown  of  his  bald  head, 

Bonaparte  started  and  looked  up.  No  "  reim," 
or  strap,  hung  down  from  the  rafters  above,  and 
not  a  human  creature  was  near  the  door.  It  was 
growing  dark  ;  he  did  not  like  it.  He  began  to 
fold  up  the  papers  expeditiously.  He  stretched 
out  his  hand  for  the  ring.  The  ring  was  gone  ! 
Gone,  although  no  human  creature  had  entered 
the  room ;  gone,  although  no  form  had  crossed 
the  doorway.  Gone !  He  would  not  sleep  there, 
that  was  certain. 

He  stuffed  the  papers  into  his  pocket.  ^  As  he 
did  so,  three  slow  and  distant  taps  were  given  on 
the  crown  of  his  head.  Bonaparte's  jaw  fell : 
each  separate  joint  lost  its  power  ;  he  could  not 
move ;  he  dared  not  rise  ;  his  tongue  lay  loose  in 
his  mouth. 

"  Take  all,  take  all !  "  he  gurgled  in  his  throat. 
"  I— I  do  not  want  them.     Take " 

Here  a  resolute  tug  at  the  gray  curls  at  the 
back  of  his  head  caused  him  to  leap  up,  yelling 
wildly.  Was  he  to  sit  still  paralyzed,  to  be 
dragged  away  bodily  to  the  devil  ?  With  terrific 
shrieks  he  fled,  casting  no  glance  behind. 

When  the  dew  was  falling,  and  the  evening 
Was  dark,  a  small  figure  moved  toward  the  gate 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  105 

of  the  farthest  ostrich-camp,  driving  a  bird  before 
it.  When  the  gate  was  opened  and  the  bird 
driven  in  and  the  gate  fastened,  it  turned  away, 
but  then  suddenly  paused  near  the  stone  wall. 

"Is  that  you,  Waldo  ?  "  said  Lyndall,  hearing  a 
sound. 

The  boy  was  sitting  on  the  damp  ground'  with 
his  back  to  the  wall.     He  gave  her  no  answer. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  bending  over  him,  "  I  have 
been  looking  for  you  all  day." 

He  mumbled  something. 

"  You  have  had  nothing  to  eat.  I  have  put 
some  supper  in  your  room.  You  must  come 
home  with  me,  Waldo." 

She  took  his  hand,  and  the  boy  rose  slowly. 

She  made  him  take  her  arm,  and  twisted  her 
small  fingers  among  his. 

"  You  must  forget,"  she  whispered.  "  Since  it 
happened  I  walk,  I  talk,  I  never  sit  still.  If  we 
remember,  we-  cannot  bring  back  the  dead." 
She  knit  her  little  fingers  closer  among  his. 
"  Forgetting  is  the  best  thing.  He  did  not 
watch  it  coming, "  she  whispered  presently. 
"  That  is  the  dreadful  thing,  to  see  it  coming !  " 
She  shuddered.  "  I  want  it  to  come  so  to  me  too. 
Why  do  you  think  I  was  driving  that  bird  ?  "  she 
added  quickly.  "  That  was  Hans,  the  bird  that 
hates  Bonaparte.  I  let  him  out  this  afternoon  ;  I 
thought  he  would  chase  him  and  perhaps  kill 
him." 

The  boy  showed  no  sign  of  interest. 

"  He  did  not  catch  him  ;  but  he  put  his  head 
over  the  half-door  of  your  cabin  and  frightened 


io6  THE  STORY  OF 

him  horribly.  He  was  there,  busy  stealing  your 
things.  Perhaps  he  will  leave  them  alone  now  ; 
but  I  wish  the  bird  had  trodden  on  him." 

They  said  no  more  till  they  reached  the  door 
of  the  cabin. 

"  There  is  a  candle  and  supper  on  the  table. 
You  must  eat,"  she  said,  authoritatively.  "  I 
cannot  stay  with  you  now,  lest  they  find  out 
about  the  bird." 

He  grasped  her  arm  and  brought  his  mouth 
close  to  her  ear. 

"  There  is  no  God  !  "  he  almost  hissed  ;  "  no 
God  ;  not  anywhere !  " 

She  started. 

"  Not  a?iywhe?'e  /  " 

He  ground  it  out  between  his  teeth,  and  she 
felt  his  hot  breath  on  her  cheek. 

"  Waldo,  you  are  mad,"  she  said,  drawing  her- 
self from  him  instinctively. 

He  loosened  his  grasp  and  turned  away  from 
her. 

In  truth,  is  it  not  life's  way  ?  We  fight  our 
little  battles  alone  ;  you  yours,  I  mine.  We  must 
not  help  or  find  help. 

When  your  life  is  most  real,  to  me  you  are  mad ; 
when  your  agony  is  blackest  I  look  at  you  and 
wonder.  Friendship  is  good',  a  strong  stick  ;  but 
when  the  hour  comes  to  lean  hard,  it  gives.  In 
the  day  of  their  bitterest  need  all  souls  are 
alone. 

Lyndall  stood  by  him  in  the  dark,  pityingly, 
wonderingly.  As  he  walked  to  the  door  she 
came  after  him. 


.      AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  107 

"  Eat  your  supper  j  it  will  do  you  good,"  she 
said. 

She  rubbed  her  cheek  against  his  shoulder  and 
then  ran  away. 

In  the  front  room  the  little  woolly  Kaffir 
girl  was  washing  Tant'  Sannie's  feet  in  a  small 
tub,  and  Bonaparte,  who  sat  on  the  wooden  sofa, 
was  pulling  off  his  shoes  and  stockings  that  his 
own  feet  might  be  washed  also.  There  were 
three  candles  burning  in  the  room,  and  he  and 
Tant'  Sannie  sat  close  together,  with  the  lean 
Hottentot  not  far  off ;  for  when  ghosts  are  about 
much  light  is  needed,  there  is  great  strength  in 
numbers.  Bonaparte  had  completely  recovered 
from  the  effects  of  his  fright  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  numerous  doses  of  brandy  that  it  had 
been  necessary  to  administer  to  him  to  effect  his 
restoration  had  put  him  into  a  singularly  pleasant 
and  amiable  mood. 

t "  That  boy  Waldo,"  said  Bonaparte,  rubbing 
his  toes,  "  took  himself  off  coolly  this  morning  as 
soon  as  the  wagon  came,  and  has  not  done  a 
stiver  of  work  all  day.  77/  not  have  that  kind  of 
thing  now  I'm  master  of  this  farm." 

The  Hottentot  maid  translated. 

"  Ah,  I  expect  he's  sorry  that  his  father's 
dead,"  said  Tant'  Sannie.  '  "It's  nature,  you 
know.  I  cried  the  whole  morning  when  my 
father  died.  One  can  always  get  another  hus- 
band, but  one  can't  get  another  father,"  said 
Tant'  Sannie,  casting  a  sidelong  glance  at  Bona- 
parte. 

Bonaparte  expressed  a  wish  to  give  Waldo  his 


1 08  THE  S  TOR  Y  OF 

orders  for  the  next  day's  work,  and  accordingly 
the  little  woolly-headed  Kaffir  was  sent  to  call 
him.  After  a  considerable  time  the  boy  appeared, 
and  stood  in  the  doorway. 

If  they  had  dressed  him  in  one  of  the  swallow- 
tailed  coats,  and  oiled  his  hair  till  the  drops  fell 
from  it,  and  it  lay  as  smooth  as  an  elder's  on  sac- 
rament Sunday,  there  would  still  have  been 
something  unanointed  in  the  aspect  of  the  fellow. 
As  it  was,  standing  there  in  his  strange  old  cos- 
tume, his  head  presenting  much  the  appearance 
of  having  been  deeply  rolled  in  sand,  his  eyelids 
swollen,  the  hair  hanging  over  his  forehead,  and 
a  dogged  sullenness  on  his  features,  he  presented 
most  the  appearance  of  an  ill-conditioned  young 
buffalo. 

"  Beloved  Lord,"  cried  Tant'  Sannie,  "  how  he 
looks !  Come  in,  boy.  Couldn't  you  come  and 
say  good-day  to  me?  Don't  you  want  some 
supper  ?  " 

He  said  he  wanted  nothing,  and  turned  his 
heavy  eyes  away  from  her. 

"  There 4>  a  ghost  been  seen  in  your  father's 
room,"  said  Tant'  Sannie.  "  If  you  are  afraid 
you  can  sleep  in  the  kitchen." 

"  I  will  sleep  in  our  room,"  said  the  boy  slowly. 

"  Well,  you  can  go  now,"  she  said ;  "  but  be 
up  early  to  take  the  sheep.     The  herd " 

"  Yes,  be  up  early,  my  boy,"  interrupted  Bona- 
parte, smiling.  "  I  am  to  be  master  of  this  farm 
now ;  and  we  shall  be  good  friends,  I  trust,  very 
good  friends,  if  you  try  to  do  your  duty,  my  dear 
boy." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  109 

Waldo  turned  to  go,  and  Bonaparte,  looking 
benignly  at  the  candle,  stretched  out  one  unstock- 
inged  foot,  over  which  Waldo,  looking  at  nothing 
in  particular,  fell  with  a  heavy  thud  upon  the 
floor. 

"  Dear  me  !  I  hope  you  are  not  hurt,  my  boy," 
said  Bonaparte.  "You'll  have  many  a  harder 
thing  than  that  though,  before  you've  gone 
through  life,"  he  added  consolingly,  as  Waldo 
picked  himself  up. 

The  lean  Hottentot  laughed  till  the  room  rang 
again  ;  and  Tant'  Sannie  tittered  till  her  sides 
ached. 

When  he  had  gone  the  little  maid  began  to 
wash  Bonaparte's  feet. 

"  Oh,  Lord,  beloved  Lord,  how  he  did  fall !  I 
can't  think  of  it,"  cried  Tant'  Sannie,  and  she 
laughed  again.  "  I  always  did  know  he  was  not 
right ;  but  this  evening  anyone  could  see  it,"  she 
added,  wiping  the  tears  of  mirth  from  her  face. 
"  His  eyes  are  as  wild  as  if  the  devil  was  in  them. 
He  never  was  like  other  children.  The  dear 
Lord  knows,  if  he  doesn't  walk  alone  for  hours 
talking  to  himself.  If  you  sit  in  the  room  with 
him  you  can  see  his  lips  moving  the  whole  time ; 
and  if  you  talk  to  him  twenty  times  he  doesn't 
hear  you.  Daft-eyes ;  he's  as  mad  as  mad  can 
be." 

The  repetition  of  the  word  mad  conveyed  mean- 
ing to  Bonaparte's  mind.  He  left  off  paddling 
his  toes  in  the  water. 

"  Mad,  mad  ?  I  know  that  kind  of  mad,"  said 
Bonaparte,  "  and  I  know  the  thing  to  give  for  it. 


no  THE  STORY  OF 

The  front  end  of  a  little  horsewhip,  the  tip! 
Nice  thing ;  takes  it  out,"  said  Bonaparte. 

The  Hottentot  laughed,  and  translated. 

"  No  more  walking  about  and  talking  to  them- 
selves on  this  farm  now,"  said  Bonaparte ;  "  no 
more  minding  of  sheep  and  reading  of  books  at 
the  same  time.  The  point  of  a  horsewhip  is  a 
little  thing,  but  I  think  he'll  have  a- taste  of  it 
before  long."  Bonaparte  rubbed  his  hands  and 
looked  pleasantly  across  his  nose  ;  and  then  the 
three  laughed  together  grimly. 

And  Waldo  in  his  cabin  crouched  in  the  dark 
in  a  corner,  with  his  knees  drawn  up  to  his  chin. 


CHAPTER  X. 

HE  SHOWS  HIS  TEETH. 

Doss  sat  among  the  karroo  bushes,  one  yellow 
ear  drawn  over  his  wicked  little  eye,  ready  to  flap 
away  any  adventurous  fly  that  might  settle  on  his 
nose."  Around  him  in  the  morning  sunlight  fed 
the  sheep ;  behind  him  lay  his  master  polishing 
his  machine.  He  found  much  comfort  in  hand- 
ling it  that  morning.  A  dozen  philosophical 
essays,  or  angelically  tuned  songs  for  the  conso- 
lation of  the  bereaved,  could  never  have  been  to 
him  what  that  little  sheep-shearing  machine  was 
that  day. 

After  struggling  to  see  the  unseeable,  growing 
drunk  with  the  endeavor  to  span  the  infinite,  and 
writhing  before  the   inscrutable  mystery,  it  is  a 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  1 1 1 

renovating  relief  to  turn  to  some  simple,  feelable, 
weighable  substance ;  to  something  which  has  a 
smell  and  a  color,  which    may  be  handled  and 
turned   over  this  way   and  that.     Whether  there 
be    or   be    not   a   hereafter,    whether   there   be 
any  use  in  calling  aloud  to  the  Unseen  Power, 
whether   there  be  an  Unseen  Power  to  call  to 
whatever  be  the   true  nature  of  the  /  who    call 
and  of  the  obiects  around  me,  whatever  be   our 
meaning,  our  Internal  essence,  our  cause  (and  in 
a  certain  order  of  minds  death  and  the  agony  of 
loss  inevitably  awaken  the  wild  desire,  at  other 
times  smothered,  to  look  into  these  things),  what- 
ever be  the  nature  of  that  which  lies  beyond  the 
unbroken  wall  which  the  limits  of  the  human  in- 
tellect build  up  on  every  hand,  this- thing  is  cer- 
tain—a knife   will   cut   wood,    and  one  cogged 
wheel  will  turn  another.     This  is  sure.         > 

Waldo  found  an  immeasurable   satisfaction   in 
the  handling  of  his  machine;  but  Doss  winked 
and  blinked,  and  thought  it  all  frightfully  monoto- 
nous out  there  on  the  flat,  and  presently  dropped 
asleep,  sitting  bolt  upright.     Suddenly  his  eyes 
opened  wide ;  something  was    coming  from  the 
direction  of  the  homestead.     Winking  his  eyes 
and  looking  intently,  he  perceived  it  was  the  gray 
rnare      Now  Doss  had  wondered   much  of  late 
what  had  become  of   her   master.      Seeing  she 
carried  some  one  on  her  back,  he  now  came  to 
his  own  conclusion,  and  began  to  move   his   tail 
violently  up   and  down.     Presently  he    pricked 
up  one  ear  and  let  the  other  hang ;  his  tail  became 
motionless,  and  the  expression  of  his  mouth  was 


112  THE  STORY  OF 

one  of  decided  disapproval  bordering  on  scorn. 
He  wrinkled  his-  lips  up  on  each  side  into  little 
lines. 

The  sand  was  soft,  and  the  gray  mare  came  on 
so  noiselessly  that  the  boy  heard  nothing  till 
Bonaparte  dismounted.  Then  Doss  got  up  and 
moved  back  a  step.  He  did  not  approve  of 
Bonaparte's  appearance.  His  costume,  in  truth, 
was  of  a  unique  kind.  It  was  a  combination  of 
the  town  and  country.  The  tails  of  his  black 
cloth  coat  were  pinned  up  behind  to  keep  them 
from  rubbing;  he  had  on  a  pair  of  moleskin 
trousers  and  leather  gaiters,  and  in  his  hand  he 
carried  a  little  whip  of  rhinoceros  hide. 

Waldo  started  and  looked  up.  Had  there  been 
a  moment's  time  he  would  have  dug  a  hole  in  the 
sand  with  his  hands  and  buried  his  treasure.  It 
was  only  a  toy  of  wood,  but  he  loved  it,  as  one 
of  necessity  loves  what  has  been  born  of  him, 
whether  of  the  flesh  or  spirit.  When  cold  eyes 
have  looked  at  it,  the  feathers  are  rubbed  off 
our  butterfly's  wing  forever. 

"  What  have  you  here,  my  lad  ?  "  said  Bon- 
aparte, standing  by  him,  and  pointing  with  the 
end  of  his  whip  to  the  medley  of  wheels  and 
hinges. 

The  boy  muttered  something  inaudible,  and 
half-spread  his  hand  over  the  thing. 

"  But  this  seems  to  be  a  very  ingenious  little 
machine,"  said  Bonaparte,  seating  himself  on  the 
ant-heap,  and  bending  down  over  it  with  deep 
interest.     "  What  is  it  for,  my  lad  ?  " 

"  Shearing  sheep." 


AN  AFRICAN  FAKM.  1 13 

« It  is  a  very  nice  little  machine,"  said  Bon- 
aparte. "  How  does  it  work,  now  ?  I  have  never 
seen  anything  so  ingenious  !  " 

There  was  never  a  parent  who  heard  deception 
in  the  voice  that  praised  his  child— his  first-born. 
Here  was  one  who  .liked  the  thing  that  had  been 
created  in  him.  He  forgot  everything.  He 
showed  how  the  shears  would  work  with  a  littte 
guidance,  how  the  sheep  would  be  held,  and  the 
wool  fall  in  the  trough.  A  flush  burst  over  his 
face  as  he  spoke. 

"I  tell  you  what,  my  lad,"  said  Bonaparte 
emphatically,  when  the  explanation  was  finished, 
"we  must  get  you  a  patent.  Your  fortune  is 
made.  In  three  years'  time  there'll  not  be^  a 
farm  in  this  colony  where  it  isn't  working.  You're 
a  genius,  that's  what  you  are  !  "  said  Bonaparte, 
rising.  .  . 

"  If  it  were  made  larger,"  said  the  boy,  raising 
his  eyes,  "it  would  work  more  smoothly.  Do 
you  think  there  would  be  any  one  in  this  colony 
would  be  able  to  make  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  sure  they  could,"  said  Bonaparte  ;  "  and 
if  not,  why,  I'll  do  my  best  for  you.  I'll  send  it 
to  England.  It  must  be  done  somehow.  How 
long  have  you  worked  at  it  ?  " 
"  Nine  months,"  said  the  boy. 
"Oh,  it  is  such  a  nice  little  machine,"  said 
Bonaparte,  "  one  can't  help  feeling  an  interest  in 
it.  There  is  only  me  little  improvement,  one  very 
little  improvement,  I  should  like  to  make." 

Bonaparte   put  his  foot  on  the  machine  and 
crushed  it  into  the  sand.     The  boy  looked  up 
into  his  face. 
8 


il4  THE  STORY  OF 

"  Looks  better  now,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  doesn't 
it  ?  If  we  can't  have  it  made  in  England  we'll 
send  it  to  America.  Good-bye  ;  ta-ta,"  he  added. 
"  You're  a  great  genius,  a  born  genius,  my  dear 
boy,  there's  no  doubt  about  it." 

He  mounted  the  gray  mare  and  rode  off.  The 
dog  watched  his  retreat  with  cynical  satisfac- 
tion ;  but  his  master  lay  on  the  ground  with  his 
head  on  his  arms  in  the  sand,  and  the  little  wheels 
and  chips  of  wood  lay  on  the  ground  around  him. 
The  dog  jumped  on  to  his  back  and  snapped  at 
the  black  curls,  till,  finding  that  no  notice  was 
taken,  he  walked  off  to  play  with  a  black  beetle. 
The  beetle  was  hard  at  work  trying  to  roll  home 
a  great  ball  of  dung  it  had  been  collecting  all  the 
morning ;  but  Doss  broke  the  ball,  and  ate  the 
beetle's  hind  legs,  and  then  bit  off  its  head.  And 
it  was  all  play,  and  no  one  could  tell  what  it  had 
lived  and  worked  for.  A  striving,  and  a  striving, 
and  an  ending  in  nothing. 


CHAPTER  XL 

HE  SNAPS. 

"  I  have  found  something  in  the  loft,"  said  Em 
to  Waldo,  who  was  listlessly  piling  cakes  of  fuel 
on  the  kraal  wall,  a  week  after.  "  It  is  a  box  of 
books  that  belonged  to  my  father.  We  thought 
Tant'  Sannie  had  burnt  them." 

The  boy  put  down  the  cake  he  was  raising  and 
looked  at  her. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  1 1 5 

*  I  don't  think  they  are  very  nice — not  stories," 
she  added,  "  but  you  can  go  and  take  any  you 
like." 

So  saying,  she  took  up  the  plate  in  which  she 
had  brought  his  breakfast,  and  walked  off  to  the 
house. 

After  that  the  boy  worked  quickly.  The  pile 
of  fuel  Bonaparte  had  ordered  him  to  pack  was 
on  the  wall  in  half  an  hour.  He  then  went  to 
throw  salt  on  the  skins  laid  out  to  dry.  Finding 
the  pot  empty,  he  went  to  the  loft  to  refill  it. 

Bonaparte  Blenkins,  whose  door  opened  at  the 
foot  of  the  ladder,  saw  the  boy  go  up,  and  stood 
in  the  doorway  waiting  for  his  return.  He  wanted 
his  boots  blacked.  Doss,  finding  he  could  not 
follow  his  master  up  the  round  bars,  sat  patiently 
at  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  Presently  he  looked 
up  longingly,  but  no  one  appeared.  Then  Bona- 
parte looked  up  also,  and  began  to  call ;  but  there 
was  no  answer.  What  could  the  boy  be  doing  ? 
The  loft  was  an  unknown  land  to  Bonaparte.  He 
had  often  wondered  what  was  up  there  ;  he  liked 
to  know  what  was  in  all  locked-up  places  and  out- 
of-the-way  corners,  but  he  was  afraid  to  climb  the 
ladder.  So  Bonaparte  looked  up,  and,  in  the 
name  of  all  that  was  tantalizing,  questioned  what 
the  boy  did  up  there.  The  loft  was  used  only  as 
a  lumber-room.  What  could  the  fellow  find  up 
there  to  keep  him  so  long  ? 

Could  the  Boer-woman  have  beheld  Waldo  at 
that  instant,  any  lingering  doubt  which  might 
have  remained  in  her  mind  as  to  the  boy's  insanity 
would  instantly  have  vanished.     For,  having  filled 


Il6  THE  STORY  OF 

the  salt-pot,  he  proceeded  to  look  for  the  box  of 
books  among  the  rubbish  that  rilled  the  loft. 
Under  a  pile  of  sacks  he  found  it — a  rough  pack- 
ing-case, nailed  up,  but  with  one  loose  plank.  He 
lifted  that,  and  saw  the  even  backs  of  a  row  of 
books.  He  knelt  down  before  the  box,  and  ran 
his  hand  along  its  rough  edges,  as  if  to  assure 
himself  of  its  existence.  He  stuck  his  hand  in 
among  the  books,  and  pulled  out  two.  He  felt 
them,  thrust  his  fingers  in  among  the  leaves,  and 
crumpled  them  a  little,  as  a  lover  feels  the  hair 
of  his  mistress.  The  fellow  gloated  over  his  treas- 
ure. He  had  had  a  dozen  books  in  the  course 
oi  his  life  ;  now  here  was  a  mine  of  them  opened 
at  his  feet.  After  a  while  he  began  to  read  the 
titles,  and  now  and  again  opened  a  book  and 
read  a  sentence  ;  but  he  was  too  excited  to  catch 
the  meanings  distinctly.  At  last  he  came  to  a 
dull,  brown  volume.  He  read  the  name,  opened 
it  in  the  center,  and  where  he  opened  began  to 
read.  'Twas  a  chapter  on  property  that  he  fell 
upon — Communism,  Fourierism,  St.  Simonism,  in 
a  work  on  Political  Economy.  He  read  down 
one  page  and  turned  over  to  the  next ;  he  read 
down  that  without  changing  his  posture  by  an 
inch  ;  he  read  the  next,  and  the  next,  kneeling  up 
all  the  while  with  the  book  in  his  hand,  and  his 
lips  parted. 

All  he  read  he  did  not  fully  understand  ;  the 
thoughts  were  new  to  him  ;  but  this  was  the 
fellow's  startled  joy  in  the  book — the  thoughts 
were  his,  they  belonged  to  him.  He  had  never 
thought  them  before,  but  they  were  his. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM,  I  1 7 

He  laughed  silently  and  internally,  with  the  still 
intensity  of  triumphant  joy. 

So,  then,  all  thinking  creatures  did  not  send  up 
the  one  cry — "  As  thou,  dear  Lord,  hast  created 
things  in  the  beginning,  so  are  they  now,  so  ought 
they  to  be,  so  will  they  be,  world  without  end; 
and  it  doesn't  concern  us  what  they  are.  Amen." 
There  were  men  to  whom  not  only  kopjes  and 
stones  were  calling  out  imperatively,  "  What  are 
we,  and  how  came  we  here?  Understand  us, 
and  know  us ;  "  but  to  whom  even  the  old,  old 
relations  between  man  and  man,  and  the  customs 
of  the  ages  called,  and  could  not  be  made  still 
and  forgotten. 

The  boy's  heavy  body  quivered  with  excite- 
ment. So  he  was  not  alone,  not  alone.  He  could 
not  quite  have  told  any  one  why  he  was  so  glad, 
and  this  warmth  had  come  to  him.  His  cheeks 
were  burning.  No  wonder  that  Bonaparte  called 
in  vain,  and  Doss  put  his  paws  on  the  ladder,  and 
whined  till  three-quarters  of  an  hour  had  passed. 
At  last  the  boy  put  the  book  in  his  breast  and 
buttoned  it  tightly  to  him.  He  took  up  the  salt- 
pot,  and  went  to  the  top  of  the  ladder.  'Bon- 
aparte, with  his  hands  folded  under  his  coat-tails, 
looked  up  when  he  appeared,  and  accosted  him. 

"  You've  been  rather  a  long  time  up  there,  my 
lad,"  he  said,  as  the  boy  descended  with  a 
tremulous  haste,  most  unlike  his  ordinary  slow 
movements.  "  You  didn't  hear  me  calling,  I 
suppose  ? " 

Bonaparte  whisked  the  tails  of  his  coat  up 
and  down  as  he  looked  at  him.    He,  Bonaparte 


ilS  THE  STORY  OF 

Blenkins,  had  eyes^  which  were  very  far-seeing. 
He  looked  at  the  pot.  It  was  rather  a  small  pot 
to  have  taken  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  the 
filling.  He  looked  at  the  face.  It  was  flushed. 
And  yet  Tant'  Sannie  kept  no  wine — he  had  not 
been  drinking;  his  eyes  were  wide  open  and 
bright — he  had  not  been  sleeping  ;  there  was  no 
girl  up  there — he  had  not  been  making  love. 
Bonaparte  looked  at  him  sagaciously.  What 
would  account  for  the  marvelous  change  in  the 
boy  coming  down  the  ladder  from  the  boy  going 
up  the  ladder  ?  One  thing  there  was.  Did  not 
Tant'  Sannie  keep  in  the  loft  "  bultongs,"  and 
nice  smoked  sausages  ?  There  must  be  something 
nice  to  eat  up  there  !     Aha  !  that  was  it ! 

Bonaparte  was  so  interested  in  carrying  out 
this  chain  of  inductive  reasoning  that  he  quite 
forgot  to  have  his  boots  blacked. 

He  watched  the  boy  shuffle  off" with  the  salt- 
pot  under  his  arm  ;  then  he  stood  in  his  doorway, 
and  raised  his  eyes  to  the  quiet  blue  sky,  and 
audibly  propounded  this  riddle  to  himself  :  » 

"  What  is  the  connection  between  the  naked 
back  of  a  certain  boy  with  a  great-coat  on  and  a 
salt-pot  under  his  arm, -and  the  tip  of  a  horse- 
whip ?  Answer  :  No  connection  at  present,  but 
there  will  be  soon." 

Bonaparte  was  so  pleased  with  this  sally  of  his 
wit  that  he  chuckled  a  little,  and  went  to  lie  down 
Dn  his  bed. 

There  was  bread-baking  that  afternoon,  and 
there  was  a  fire  lighted  in  the  brick  oven  be- 
hind the  house,  and  Tant'  Sannie  had  left  the 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  1 1 9 

great  wooden-elbowed  chair  in  which  she  passed 
her  life,  and  waddled  out  to  look  at  it.  Not  far 
off  was  Waldo,  who,  having  thrown  a  pail  of  food 
into  the  pigsty,  now  leaned  over  the  sod-wall 
looking  at  the  pigs.  Half  of  the  sty  was  dry,  but 
the  lower  half  was  a  pool  of  mud,  on  the  edge  of 
which  the  mother  sow  lay  with  closed  eyes,  her 
ten  little  ones  sucking ;  the  father-pig,  knee-deep 
in  the  mud,  stood  running  his  snout  into  a  rotten 
pumpkin  and  wriggling  his  curled  tail. 

Waldo  wondered  dreamily  as  he  stared  why 
they  were  pleasant  to  look  at.  Taken  singly 
they  were  not  beautiful ;  taken  together  they  were. 
Was  it  not  because  there  was  a  certain  harmony 
about  them  ?  The  old  sow  was  suited  to  the 
little  pigs,  and  the  little  pigs  to  their  mother,  the 
old  boar  to  the  rotten  pumpkin,  and  all  to  the 
mud.  They  suggested  the  thought  of  nothing 
that  should  be  added,  of  nothing  that  should  be 
taken  away.  And,  he  wondered  on  vaguely,  was 
not  that  the  secret  of  all  beauty,  that  you  who 

look  on So  he  stood  dreaming,  and  leaned 

further  and  further  over  the  sod-wall  and  looked 
at  the  pigs. 

All  this  time  Bonaparte  Blenkins  was  sloping 
down  from  the  house  in  an  aimless  sort  of  way ; 
but  he  kept  one  eye  fixed  on  the  pigsty,  and  each 
gyration  brought  him  nearer  to  it.  Waldo  stood 
like  a  thing  asleep  when  Bonaparte  came  close 
up  to  him. 

In  old  days,  when  a  small  boy,  playing  in 
an  Irish  street-gutter,  he,  Eonaparte,  had  been 
familiarly  known  among  his  comrades  \xaf*^  #£ 


120  THE  STORY  OF 

title  of  Tripping  Ben ;  this,  from  the  rare  easfc 
and  dexterity  with  which,  by  merely  projecting 
his  foot,  he  could  precipitate  any  unfortunate 
companion  on  to  the  crown  of  his  head.  Years 
had  elapsed,  and  Tripping  Ben  had  become 
Bonaparte ;  but  the  old  gift  was  in  him  still.  He 
came  close  to  the  pigsty.  All  the  defunct  mem- 
ories of  his  boyhood  returned  on  him  in  a  flood, 
as  with  an  adroit  movement  he  inserted  his  leg 
between  Waldo  and  the  wall,  and  sent  him  over 
into  the  pigsty. 

The  little  pigs  were  startled  at  the  strange 
intruder,  and  ran  behind  their  mother,  who  sniffed 
at  him.  Tant' Sannie  smote  her  hands  together  and 
laughed  ;  but  Bonaparte  was  far  from  joining  her. 
Lost  in  reverie,  he  gazed  at  the  distant  horizon. 

The  sudden  reversal  of  head  and  feet  had 
thrown  out  the  volume  that  Waldo  carried  in  his 
breast.  Bonaparte  picked  it  up,  and  began  to 
inspect  it,  as  the  boy  climbed  slowly  over  the 
wall.  He  would  have  walked  off  sullenly,  but  he 
wanted  his  book,  and  waited  till  it  should  be 
given  him. 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Bonaparte,  raising  his  eyes  from 
the  leaves  of  the  book  which  he  was  examining. 
"  I  hope  your  coat  has  not  been  injured  ;  it  is  of 
an  elegant  cut.  An  heirloom,  I  presume,  from 
your  paternal  grandfather  ?     It  looks  nice  now." 

"  Oh,  Lord !  oh,  Lord  ! "  cried  Tant'  Sannie, 
laughing  and  holding  her  sides ;  "  how  the  child 
looks — as  though  he  thought  the  mud  would 
never  wash  off.  Oh,  Lord,  I  shall  die  !  You, 
Bonaparte,  are  the  funniest  man  I  ever  saw." 


4Ar  AFX/CAJV  FARM.  121 

Bonaparte  Blenkins  was  now  carefully  inspect- 
ing the  volume  he  had  picked  up.  Among  the 
subjects  on  which  the  darkness  of  his  understand- 
ing had  been  enlightened  during  his  youth, 
Political  Economy  had  not  been  one.  He  was 
not  therefore,  very  clear  as  to  what  the  nature  of 
the'  book  might  be ;  and  as  the  name  of  the 
writer,  J.  S.  Mill,  might,  for  anything  he  knew 
to  the  contrary,  have  belonged  to  a  venerable 
member  of  the  British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society, 
it  by  no  means  threw  light  upon  the  question. 
He  was  not  in  any  way  sure  that  Political  Econ- 
omy had  nothing  to  do  with  the  cheapest  way  of 
procuring  clothing  for  the  army  and  navy,  which 
would  be,  certainly,  both  a  political  and  econom- 
ical subject.  . 

But  Bonaparte  soon  came  to  a  conclusion  as  to 
the  nature  of  the  book  and  its  contents,  by  the 
application  of  a  simple  rule  now  largely  acted 
upon,  but  which,  becoming  universal,  would  save 
much  thought  and  valuable  time.  It  is  of  mar- 
velous simplicity,  of  infinite  utility,  of  universal 
applicability.  It  may  easily  be  committed  to^ 
memory,  and  runs  thus  : —    %  /T 

Whenever  you  come  into  contact  with  any  book, 
person,  or  opinion  of  which  you  absolutely  compre- 
hend nothing,  declare  that  book,  person,  or  opinion 
to  be  immoral.  Bespatter  it,  vituperate  against  it, 
strongly  insist  that  any  man  or  woman  harboring 
it  is  a  fool  or  a  knave,  or  both.  Carefully  abstain 
from  studying  it.  Do  all  that  in  you  lies  to  anm* 
hilate  that  book,  person,  or  opinion. 

Acting  on  this  rule,  so  wide  in  its  comprehend 


122  THE  STORY  OF 

siveness,  so  beautifully  simple  in  its  working, 
Bonaparte  approached  Tant'  Sannie  with  the 
book  in  his  hand.  Waldo  came  a  step  nearer, 
eyeing  it  like  a  dog  whose  young  has  fallen  into 
evil  hands. 

"  This  book,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  is  not  a  fit  and 
proper  study  for  a  young  and  immature  mind." 

Tant'  Sannie  did  not  understand  a  word,  and 
said, 

"  What  ? " 

"This  book,"  said  Bonaparte,  bringing  down 
his  finger  with  energy  on  the  cover,  "  this  book 
is  sleg,  sleg,  Davel,  Davel /" 

Tant'  Sannie  perceived  from  the  gravity  of  his 
countenance  that  it  was  no  laughing  matter. 
From  the  words  sleg  and  Davel  she  understood 
that  the  book  was  evil,  and  had  some  connection 
with  the  prince  who  pulls  the  wires  of  evil  over 
the  whole  earth. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  book?"  she  asked, 
turning  her  twinkling  little  eyes  on  Waldo.  "  I 
wish  that  my  legs  may  be  as  thin  as  an  English- 
man's if  it  isn't  one  of  your  father's.  He  had 
more  sins  than  all  the  Kaffirs  in  Kaffirland,  for 
all  that  he  pretended  to  be  so  good  all  those 
years,  and  to  live  without  a  wife  because  he  was 
thinking  of  the  one  that  was  dead  !  As  though 
ten  dead  wives  could  make  up  for  one  fat  one 
with  arms  and  legs  !  "  cried  Tant'  Sannie,  snorting. 

"  It  was  not  my  father's  book,"  said  the  boy 
savagely.     "  I  got  it  from  your  loft." 

"  My  loft !  my  book !  How  dare  you  ?  "  cried 
Tant'  Sannie. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  123 

"It  was  Em's  father's.  She  gave  it  me,"  he 
muttered  more  sullenly. 

"  Give  it  here.  What  is  the  name  of  it  ?  What 
is  it  about  ? "  she  asked,  putting  her  finger  upon 
the  title. 

Bonaparte  understood. 

"  Political  Economy,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  Dear  Lord  !  "  said  Tant'  Sannie,  "  cannot  one 
hear  from  the  very  sound  what  an  ungodly  book 
it  is  !  One  can  hardly  say  the  name.  Haven't 
we  got  curses  enough  on  this  farm  ?  "  cried 
Tant'  Sannie,  eloquently :  "  my  best  imported 
Merino  ram  dying  of  nobody  knows  what,  and 
the  short-horn  cow  casting  her  two  calves,  and 
the  sheep  eaten  up  with  the  scab  and  the  drought  ? 
And  is  this  a  time  to  bring  ungodly  things  about 
the  place,  to  call  down  the  vengeance  of  Almighty 
God  to  punish  us  more  ?  Didn't  the  minister  tell 
me  when  I  was  confirmed  not  to  read  any  book 
except  my  Bible  and  hymn-book — that  the  Devil 
was  in  all  the  rest  ?  And  I  never  have  read  any 
other  book,"  said  Tant'  Sannie  with  virtuous 
energy,  "  and  I  never  will !  " 

Waldo  saw  that  the  fate  of  his  book  was  sealed, 
and  turned  sullenly  on  his  heel. 

"  So  you  will  not  stay  to  hear  what  I  say !  " 
cried  Tant'  Sannie.  "There,  take  your  Polity- 
gollity-gominy,  your  Devil's  book  !  "  she  cried, 
flinging  the  book  at  his  head  with  much  energy. 

It  merely  touched  his  forehead  on  one  side  and 
fell  to  the  ground. 

"  Go  on,"  she  cried  ;  "  1  know  you  are  going  tc 
talk  to  ycurself.     People  who  talk  to  themselves 


f24  THE  STORY  OF 

always  talk  to  the  Devil.  Go  and  tell  him  all 
about  it.     Go,  go  !  run  !  "  cried  Tant'  Sannie. 

But  the  boy  neither  quickened  nor  slackened 
his  pace,  and  passed  sullenly  round  the  back  of 
the  wagon-house. 

Books  have  been  thrown  at  other  heads  before 
and  since  that  summer  afternoon,  by  hands  more 
white  and  delicate  than  those  of  the  Boer-woman ; 
but  whether  the  result  of  the  process  has  been  i\\ 
any  case  wholly  satisfactory  may  be  questioned. 
We  love  that  with  a  peculiar  tenderness,  we 
treasure  it  with  a  peculiar  care,  it  has  for  us  quite 
a  fictitious  value,  for  which  we  have  suffered.  If 
we  may  not  carry  it  anywhere  else  we  will  carry 
it  in  our  hearts,  and  always  to  the  end. 

Bonaparte  Blenkins  went  to  pick  up  the  volume, 
now  loosened  from  its  cover,  while  Tant'  Sannie 
pushed  the  stumps  of  wood  farther  into  the  oven. 
Bonaparte  came  close  to  her,  tapped  the  book 
knowingly,  nodded,  and  looked  at  the  fire.  Tant' 
Sannie  comprehended,  and,  taking  the  volume 
from  his  hand,  threw  it  into  the  back  of  the  oven. 
It  lay  upon  the  heap  of  coals,  smoked,  flared,  and 
blazed,  and  the  "  Political  Economy "  was  no 
more — gone  out  of  existence,  like  many  another 
poor  heretic  of  flesh  and  blood. 

Bonaparte  grinned,  and  to  watch  the  process 
brought  his  face  so  near  the  oven-door  that  the 
white  hair  on  his  eye-brows  got  singed.  He  then 
inquired  if  there  were  any  more  in  the  loft. 

Learning  that  there  were,  he  made  signs  in- 
dicative of  taking  up  armfuls  and  flinging  them 
into   the  fire.     But  Tant'   Sannie  was  dubious. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM,  1 25 

The  deceased  Englishman  had  left  all  his  personal 
effects  specially  to  his  child.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  Bonaparte  to  talk  of  burning  the  books.  He 
had  had  his  hair  spiritually  pulled,  and  she  had 
no  wish  to  repeat  his  experience. 

She  shook  her  head.  Bonaparte  was  displeased. 
But  then  a  happy  thought  occurred  to  him.  He 
suggested  that  the  key  of  the  loft  should  hence- 
forth be  put  into  his  own  safe  care  and  keeping 
—no  one  gaining  possession  of  it  without  his 
permission.  To  this  Tant'  Sannie  readily  as- 
sented, and  the  two  walked  lovingly  to  the  house 
to  look  for  it. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

HE   BITES. 

Bonaparte  Blenkins  was  riding  home  on 
the  gray  mare.  He  had  ridden  out  that  after- 
noon, partly  for  the  benefit  of  his  health,  partly 
to  maintain  his  character  as  overseer  of  the  farm. 
As  he  rode  on  slowly,  he  thoughtfully  touched 
the  ears  of  the  gray  mare  with  his  whip. 

"No,  Bon,  my  boy,"  he  addressed  himself, 
"  don't  propose  !  You  can't  marry  for  four  years, 
on  account  of  the  will  ;  then  why  propose  ? 
Weedle  her,  tweedle  her,  teedle  her,  but  don't  let 
her  make  sure  of  you.  When  a  woman,"  said 
Bonaparte,  sagely  resting  his  finger  against  the 
side  of  his  nose — "  when  a  woman  is  sure  of  .you 
she  does  what  she  likes  with  you  ;  but  when  she 


126  THE  STORY  OF 

Isn't,  you  do  what  you  like  with  her.     And  I " 

said  Bonaparte. 

Here  he  drew  the  horse  up  suddenly  and 
looked.  He  was  now  close  to  the  house,  and 
leaning  over  the  pigsty  wall,  in  company  with  Em, 
who  was  showing  her  the  pigs,  was  a  strange 
female  figure.  It  was  the  first  visitor  that  had 
appeared  on  the  farm  since  his  arrival,  and  he 
looked  at  her  with  interest.  She  was  a  tall,  pudgy 
girl  of  fifteen,  weighing  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  with  baggy  pendulous  cheeks,  and  up- 
turned nose.  She  strikingly  resembled  Tant' 
Sannie  in  form  and  feature,  but  her  sleepy  good 
eyes  lacked  the  twinkle  that  dwelt  in  the  Boer- 
woman's  small  orbs.  She  was  attired  in  a  bright 
green  print,  wore  brass  rings  in  her  ears  and  glass 
beads  round  her  neck,  and.  was  sucking  the  tip 
of  her  large  finger  as  she  looked  at  the  pigs. 

"  Who  is  it  that  has  come  ? "  asked  Bonaparte, 
when  he  stood  drinking  his  coffee  in  the  front 
room. 

;  "  Why,  my  niece,  to  be  sure,"  said  Tant'  Sannie, 
the  Hottentot  maid  translating.  "  She's  the  only 
daughter  of  my  only  brother  Paul,  and  she's  come 
to  visit  me.  She'll  be  a  nice  mouthful  to  the  man 
that  can  get  her,"  added  Tant'  Sannie.  "  Her 
father's  got  two  thousand  pounds  in  the  green 
wagon  box  under  his  bed,  and  a  farm,  and  five 
thousand  sheep,  and  God  Almighty  knows  how 
many  goats  and  horses.  They  milk  ten  cows  in 
mid-wirier,  and  the  young  men  are  after  her  like 
flies  about  a  bowl  of  milk.  She  says  she  means 
to  get  married  in  four  months,  but  she  doesn't 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  1 2  7 

yet  know  to  whom.  It  was  so  with  me  when  I 
was  young,"  said  Tant'  Sannie :  "  I've  sat  up 
with  the  young  men  four  and  five  nights  a  week. 
And  they  will  come  riding  again,  as  soon  as  ever 
they  know  that  the  time's  up  that  the  Englishman 
made  me  agree  not  to  marry  in." 

The  Boer-woman  smirked  complacently. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  ?  "  asked  Tant'  Sannie 
presently,  seeing  that  Bonaparte  rose. 

"  Ha  !  I'm  just  going  to  the  kraals  ;  I'll  be  in 
to  supper,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  reached  his  own  door 
he  stopped  and  turned  in  there.  Soon  after  he 
stood  before  the  little  glass,  arrayed  in  his  best 
white  shirt  with  the  little  tucks,  and  shaving  him- 
self. He  had  on  his  very  best  trousers,  and  had 
heavily  oiled  the  little  fringe  at  the  back  of  his 
head,  which,  however,  refused  to  become  darker. 
But  what  distressed  him  most  was  his  nose^— it 
was  very  red.  He  rubbed  his  finger  and  thumb 
on  the  wall,  and  put  a  little  whitewash  on  it ;  but, 
finding  it  rather  made  matters  worse,  he  rubbed 
it  off  again.  Then  he  looked  carefully  into  his 
own  eyes.  They  certainly  were  a  little  pulled 
down  at  the  outer  corners,  which  gave  them  the 
appearance  of  looking  crosswise ;  but  then  they 
were  a  nice  blue.  So  he  put  on  his  best  coat, 
took  up  his  stick,  and  went  out  to  supper,  feeling 
on  the  whole  well  satisfied. 

"  Aunt,"  said  Trana  to  Tant'  Sannie  when  that 
night  they  lay  together  in  the  great  wooden  bed, 
"  why  does  the  Englishman  sigh  so  when  he  looks 
at  me  ? " 


128    .  THE  STORY  OF 

"  Ha  i  "  said  Tant'  Sannie,  who  was  half  asleep 
but  suddenly  started,  wide  awake.  "  It's  because 
he  thinks  you  look  like  me.  I  tell  you,  Trana," 
said  Tant'  Sannie,  "  the  man  is  mad  with  love  of 
me.  I  told  him  the  other  night  I  couldn't  marry 
till  Em  was  sixteen,  or  I'd  lose  all  the  sheep  her 
father  left  me.  And  he  talked  about  Jacob  work- 
ing seven  years  and  seven  years  again  for  his 
wife.  And  of  course  he  meant  me,"  said  Tant' 
Sannie  pompously.  "  But  he  won't  get  me  so  easily 
as  he  thinks  :  he'll  have  to  ask  more  than  once." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Trana,  who  was  a  lumpish  girl 
and  not  much  given  to  talking ;  but  presently 
she  added,  "Aunt,  why  does  the  Englishman 
always  knock  against  a  person  when  he  passes 
them  ?  " 

"  That's  because  you  are  always  in  the  way,*' 
said  Tant'  Sannie. 

"  But,  aunt,"  said  Trana,  presently,  "  I  think 
he  is  very  ugly." 

"  Phugh!"  said  Tant'  Sannie.  "It's  only 
because  we're  not  accustomed  to  such  noses  in 
this  country.  In  his  country  he  says  all  the  peo- 
ple have  such  noses,  and  the  redder  your  nose 
is  the  higher  you  are.  He's  of  the  family  of  the 
Queen  Victoria,  you  know,"  said  Tant'  Sannie, 
wakening  up  with  her  subject ;  H  and  he  doesn't 
think  anything  of  governors  and  Church  elders, 
and  such  people  ;  they  are  nothing  to  him.  When 
his  aunt  with  the  dropsy  dies  he'll  have  money 
enough  to  buy  all  the  farms  in  this  district !  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Trana,  That  certainly  made  a 
difference. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  129 

"Yes,"  said  Tant'  Sannie ;  "and  he's  only 
forty-one,  though  you'd  take  him  to  be  sixty. 
And  he  told  me  last  night  the  real  reason  of  his 
baldness." 

Tant'  Sannie  then  proceeded  to  relate  how,  at 
eighteen  years  of  age,  Bonaparte  had  courted  a 
fair  young  lady.  How  a  deadly  rival,  jealous  of 
his  verdant  locks,  his  golden  flowing  hair,  had, 
with  a  damnable  and  insinuating  deception,  made 
him  a  present  of  a  pot  of  pomatum.  How,  apply- 
ing it  in  the  evening,  on  rising  in  the  morning,  he 
found  his  pillow  strewn  with  the  golden  locks, 
and,  looking  into  the  glass,  beheld  the  shining  and 
smooth  expanse  which  henceforth  he  must  bear. 
The  few  remaining  hairs  were  turned  to  a  silvery 
whiteness,  and  the  young  lady  married  his  rival. 

"  And,"  said  Tant'  Sannie  solemnly,  "  if  it 
had  not  been  for  the  grace  of  God,  and  reading 
of  the  psalms,  he  says  he  would  have  killed  him- 
self. He  says  he  could  kill  himself  quite-  easily 
if  he  wants  to  marry  a  woman  and  she  won't." 

"  A  le  wereld,"  said  Trana :  and  then  they  went 
to  sleep. 

Every  one  was  lost  in  sleep  soon  ;  but  from  the 
window  of  the  cabin  the  light  streamed  forth.'  It 
came  from  a  dung  fire,  over  which  Waldo  sat 
brooding.  Hour  after  hour  he  sat  there,  now 
and  again  throwing  a  fresh  lump  of  fuel  on  to  the 
fire,  which  burnt  up  bravely,  and  then  sank  into 
a  great  bed  of  red  coals,  which  reflected  them- 
selves in  the  boy's  eyes  as  he  sat  there  brooding, 
brooding,  brooding.  At  last,  when  the  fire  was 
blazing  at  its  brightest,  he  rose  suddenly  and 

9 


1 3o  THE  STORY  OF 

walked  slowly  to  a  beam  from  which  an  ox  "  reim  n 
hung.  Loosening  it,  he  ran  a  noose  in  one  end 
and  then  doubled  it  round  his  arm. 

"  Mine,  mine  !  I  have  a  right,"  he  muttered; 
and  then  something  louder,  "  if  I  fall  and  am 
killed,  so  much  the  better  !  " 

He  opened  the  door  and  went  out  into  the 
starlight. 

He  walked  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground,, 
but  overhead  it  was  one  of  those  brilliant  southern 
nights  when  every  sr  ~i  ^>  small  that  your  hand 
might  cover  it  show:,  ifi  cold  white  points,  and 
the  Milky  Way  is  a  bet  of  sharp  frosted  silver. 
He  passed  the  door  where  Bonaparte  lay  dream- 
ing of  Trana  and  her  wealth,  and  he  mounted  the 
ladder  steps.  From  those  he  clambered  with 
some  difficulty  on  to  the  roof  of  the  house.  It 
was  of  old  rotten  thatch  with  a  ridge  of  white 
plaster,  and  it  crumbled  away  under  his  feet  at 
every  step.  He  trod  as  heavily  as  he  could.  So 
much  the  better  if  he  fell. 

He  knelt  down  when  he  got  to  the  far  gable, 
and  began  to  fasten  his  "  reim  "  to  the  crumbling 
bricks.  Below  was  the  little  window  of  the  loft. 
With  one  end  of  the  "  reim  "  tied  round  the  gable, 
the  other  end  round  his  waist,  how  easy  to  slide 
down  to  it,  and  to  open  it,  through  one  of  the 
broken  panes,  and  to  go  in,  and  to  fill  his  arms 
with  books,  and  to  clamber  up  again!  They 
had  burnt  one  book — he  would  have  twenty. 
Every  man's  hand  was  against  his — his  should 
be  against  every  man's.  No  one  would  help  him 
— ho.  would  help  himself. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  131 

He  lifted  the  black,  damp  hair  from  his  knit 
forehead,  and  looked  round  to  cool  his  hot  face. 
Then  he  saw  what  a  regal  night  it  was.  He  knelt 
silently  and  looked  up.  A  thousand  eyes  were 
looking  down  at  him,  bright  and  so  cold.  There 
was  a  laughing  irony  in  them. 

"  So  hot,  so  bitter,  so  angry  ?  Poor  little 
mortal !  " 

He  was  ashamed.  He  folded  his  arms,  and 
sat  on  the  ridge  of  the  roof  looking  up  at  them. 

"  So  hot,  so  bitter,  so  angry  ?  " 

It  was  as  though  a  cold  hand  had  been  laid 
upon  his  throbbing  forehead,  and  slowly  they 
began  to  fade  and  grow  dim.  Tant'  Sannie  and 
the  burnt  book,  Bonaparte  and  the  broken  ma- 
chine, the  box  in  the  loft,  he  himself  sitting  there 
— how  small  they  all  became!  Even  the  grave 
over  yonder.  Those  stars  that  shone  on  up  above 
so  quietly,  they  had  seen  a  thousand  such  little 
existences,  a  thousand  such  little  existences  fight 
just  so  fiercely,  flare  up  just  so  brightly,  and  go 
out ;  and  they,  the  old,  old  stars,  shone  on  for- 
ever. 

"  So  hot,  so  angry,  poor  little  soul  ? "  they 
said. 

The  "  reim  "  slipped  from  his  fingers  ;  he  sat 
with  his  arms  folded,  looking  up. 

"We,"  said  the  stars,  "have  seen  the  earth 
when  it  was  young.  We  have  seen  small  things 
creep  out  upon  its  surface— small  things  that 
prayed  and  loved  and  cried  very  loudly,  and  then 
crept  under  it  again.  But  we,"  said  the -stars, 
w  are  as  old  as  the  Unknown*" 


I32  THE  STORY  OF 

He  leaned  his  chin  against  the  palm  of  his 
hand  and  looked  up  at  them.  So  long  he  sat 
there  that  bright  stars  set  and  new  ones  rose,  and 
yet  he  sat  on. 

Then  at  last  he  stood  up,  and  began  to  loosen 
the  "  reim  "  from  the  gable. 

What  did  it  matter  about  the  books  ?  The 
lust  and  the  desire  for  them  had  died  out.  If 
they  pleased  to  keep  them  from  him  they  might. 
What  matter  ?  it  was  a  very  little  thing.  Why 
hate,  and  struggle,  and  fight  ?  Let  it  be  as  it 
would. 

He  twisted  the  "  reim  "  round  his  arm  and 
walked  back  along  the  ridge  of  the  house. 

By  this  time  Bonaparte  Blenkins  had  finished 
his  dream  of  Trana,  and  as  he  turned  himself 
round  for  a  fresh  dose  he  heard  the  steps  descend- 
ing the  ladder.  His  first  impulse  was  to  draw 
the  blanket  over  his  head  and  his  legs  under  him, 
and  to  shout ;  but,  recollecting  that  the  door  was 
locked  and  the  window  carefully  bolted,  he 
allowed  his  head  slowly  to  crop  out  among  the 
blankets,  and  listened  intently.  Whosoever  it 
might  be,  there  was  no  danger  of  their  getting  at 
him  ;  so  he  clambered  out  of  bed,  and  going  on 
tiptoe  to  the  door,  applied  his  eye  to  the  keyhole. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  seen  ;  so  walking  to  the 
window,  he  brought  his  face  as  close  to  the  glass 
as  his  nose  would  allow.  There  was  a  figure  just 
discernible.  The  lad  was  not  trying  to  walk 
softly,  and  the  heavy  shuffling  of  the  well-known 
*'  velschoens "  could  be  clearly  heard  through 
the  closed  window  as  they  crossed  the  stones  in 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  133 

the  yard.  Bonaparte  listened  till  they  ad  died 
away  round  the  corner  of  the  wagon-house  ;  and, 
feeling  that  his  bare  legs  were  getting  cold,  he 
jumped  back  into  bed  again. 

"What  do  you  keep  up  in  your  loft  ?  "  inquired 
Bonaparte  of  the  Boer-woman  the  next  evening, 
pointing  upward  and  elucidating  his  meaning  by 
the  addition  of  such  Dutch  words  as  he  knew,  for 
the  lean  Hottentot  was  gone  home. 

"  Dried  skins,"  said  the  Boer-woman,  "  and 
empty  bottles,  and  boxes,  and  sacks,  and  soap." 

"  You  don't  keep  any  of  your  provisions  there 
—sugar,  now  ? "  said  Bonaparte,  pointing  to  the 
sugar-basin  and  then  up  at  the  loft. 

Tant'  Sannie  shook  her  head. 

"  Only  salt,  and  dried  peaches." 

"  Dried  peaches !  Eh  ? "  said  Bonaparte. 
"  Shut  the  door,  my  dear  child,  shut  it  tight,"  he 
called  out  to  Em,  who  stood  in  the  dining-room. 
Then  he  leaned  over  the  elbow  of  the  sofa  and 
brought  his  face  as  close  as  possible  to  the  Boer- 
woman's,  and  made  signs  of  eating.  Then  he 
said  something  she  did  not  comprehend  ;  then 
said,  "Waldo,  Waldo,  Waldo,"  pointed  up  to  the 
loft  and  made  signs  of  eating  again. 

Now  an  inkling  of  his  meaning  dawned  on  the 
Boer-woman's  mind.  To  make  it  clearer,  he 
moved  his  legs  after  the  manner  of  one  going  up 
a  ladder,  appeared  to  be  opening  the  door,  mas- 
ticated vigorously,  said,  "Peaches,  peaches, 
peaches,"  and  appeared  to  be  coming  down  the 
ladder. 


I34  THE  STORY  OF 

It  was  now  evident  to  Tant*  Sannie  that 
Waldo  had  been  in  her  loft  and  eaten  her 
peaches. 

To  exemplify  his  own  share  in  the  proceedings, 
Bonaparte  lay  down  on  the  sofa,  and  shutting  his 
eyes  tightly,  said,  "  Night,  night,  night !  "  Then 
he  sat  up  wildly,  appearing  to  be  intently  listen- 
ing, mimicked  with  his  feet  the  coming  down  a 
ladder,  and  looked  at  Tant'  Sannie.  This  clearly 
showed  how,  roused  in  the  night,  he  had  discov- 
ered the  theft. 

**  He  must  have  been  a  great  fool  to  eat  my 
peaches,"  said  Tant'  Sannie.  "  They  are  full  of 
mites  as  a  sheep-skin,  and  as  hard  as  stones." 

Bonaparte,  fumbling  in  his  pocket,  did  not 
even  hear  her  remark,  and  took  out  from  his 
coat-tail  a  little  horse-whip,  nicely  rolled  up. 
Bonaparte  winked  at  the  little  rhinoceros  horse- 
whip, at  the  Boer-woman,  and  then  at  the  door. 

"  Shall  we  call  him— Waldo,  Waldo  ?  "  he  said. 

Tant'  Sannie  nodded,  and  giggled.  There 
was  something  so  exceedingly  humorous  in  the 
idea  that  he  was  going  to  beat  the  boy,  though 
for  her  own  part  she  did  not  see  that  the  peaches 
Were  worth  it.  When  the  Kaffir  maid  came  with 
the  wash-tub  she  was  sent  to  summon  Waldo ; 
and  Bonaparte  doubled  up  the  little  whip  and  put  , 
it  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  drew  himself  up,  and 
prepared  to  act  his  important  part  with  becoming 
gravity.  Soon  Waldo  stood  in  the  door,  and 
took  off  his  hat. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,  my  lad,"  said  Bonaparte, 
"  and  shut  the  door  behind." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  135 

The  boy  came  in  and  stood  before  them. 

"You  need  not  be  so  afraid,  child,"  said  Tant* 
Sannie.  "  I  was  a  child  myself  once.  It's  no 
great  harm  if  you  have  taken  a  few." 

Bonaparte  perceived  that  her  -remark  was  not 
in  keeping  with  the  nature  of  the  proceedings, 
and  of  the  little  drama  he  intended  to  act. 
Pursing  out  his  lips,  and  waving  his  hand,  he 
solemnly  addressed  the  boy, — 

"  Waldo,  it  grieves  me  beyond  expression  to 
have  to  summon  you  for  so  painful  a  purpose ; 
but  it  is  at  the  imperative  call  of  duty,  which  I 
dare  not  evade.  I  do  not  state  that  frank  and 
unreserved  confession  will  obviate  the  necessity 
of  chastisement,  which  if  requisite  shall  be  fully 
administered;  but  the  nature  of  that  chastisement 
may  be  mitigated  by  free  and  humble  confession. 
Waldo,  answer  me  as  you  would  your  own  father, 
in  whose  place  I  now  stand  to  you :  have  you,  or 
have  you  not,  did  you,  or  did  you  not,  eat  of  the 
peaches  in  the  loft  ? " 

"  Say  you  took  them,  boy,  say  you  took  them, 
then  he  won't  beat  you  much,"  said  the  Dutch- 
woman good-naturedly,  getting  a  little  sorry  for 
him. 

The  boy  raised  his  eyes  slowly  and  fixed  them 
vacantly  upon  her,  then  suddenly  his  face  grew 
dark  with  blood. 

"  So,  you  haven't  got  anything  to  say  to  us,  my 
lad  ?  "  said  Bonaparte,  momentarily  forgetting  his 
dignity,  and  bending  forward  with  a  little  snarl. 
"  But  what  I  mean  is  just  this,  my  lad — when  it 
takes  a  boy  three-quarters  of  an  hour  to  fill  a 


I36  THE  STORY  OF 

salt-pot,  and  when  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning 
he  goes  knocking  about  the  doors  of  a  loft,  it's 
natural  to  suppose  there's  mischief  in  it.  It's 
certain  there  is  mischief  in  it ;  and  where  there's 
mischief  in  it  must  be  taken  out"  said  Bonaparte, 
grinning  into  the  boy's  face.  Then,  feeling  that 
he  had  fallen  from  that  high  gravity  which  was 
as  spice  to  the  pudding,  and  the  flavor  of 
the  whole  little  tragedy,  he  drew  himself  up. 
"  Waldo,"  he  said,  "  confess  to  me  instantly,  and 
without  reserve,  that  you  ate  the  peaches," 

The  boy's  face  was  white  now.  His  eyes  were 
on  the  ground,  his  hands  doggedly  clasped 
before  him. 

"  What,  do  you  not  intend  to  answer  ? " 

The  boy  looked  up  at  them  once  from  under 
his  bent  eyebrows,  and  then  looked  down  again. 

"  The  creature  looks  as  if  all  the  devils  in  hell 
were  in  it,"  cried  Tant'  Sannie.  "  Say  you 
took  them,  boy.  Young  things  will  be  young 
things  ;  I  was  older  than  you  when  I  used  to 
eat  'bultong*  in  my  mother's  loft,  and  get 
the  little  niggers  whipped  for  it.  Say  -you  took 
them." 

But  the  boy  said  nothing. 

"  I  think  a  little  solitary  confinement  might 
perhaps  be  beneficial,"  said  Bonaparte.  "  It  will 
enable  you,  Waldo,  to  reflect  on  the  enormity  of 
the  sin  you  have  committed  against  our  Father 
in  heaven.  And  you  may  also  think  of  the  sub' 
mission  you  owe  to  those  who  are  older  and  wiser 
than  you  are,  and  whose  duty  it  is  to  check  and 
correct  you." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  137 

Saying  this,  Bonaparte  stood  up  and  took  down 
the  key  of  the  fuel-house,  which  hung  on  a  naiL 
against  the  wall. 

"  Walk  on,  my  boy,"  said  Bonaparte,  pointing 
to  the  door ;  and  as  he  followed  him  out  he  drew 
his  mouth  expressively  on  one  side,  and  made 
the  lash  of  the  little  horsewhip  stick  out  of  his 
pocket  and  shake  up  and  down. 

Tant'  Sannie  felt  half  sorry  for  the  lad ;  but 
she  could  not  help  laughing,  it  was  always  so 
funny  when  one  was  going  to  have  a  whipping, 
and  it  would  do  him  good.  Anyhow  he  would 
forget  all  about  it  when  the  places  were  healed^ 
Had  not  she  been  beaten  many  times  and  been 
all  the  better  for  it? 

Bonaparte  took  up  a  lighted  candle  that  had 
been  left  burning  on  the  kitchen  table,  and  told 
the  boy  to  walk  before  him.  They  went  to  the 
fuel-house.  It  was  a  little  stone  erection  that 
jutted  out  from  the  side  of  the  wagon-house.  It 
was  low,  and  without  a  window ;  and  the  dried 
dung  was  piled  in  one  corner,  and  the  coffee-mill 
stood  in  another,  fastened  on  the  top  of  a  short 
post  about  three  feet  high.  Bonaparte  took  the 
padlock  off  the  rough  door. 

"  Walk  in,  my  lad,"  he  said. 

Waldo  obeyed  sullenly  ;  one  place  to  him  was 
much  the  same  as  ^another.  He  had  no  objection 
to  being  locked  up. 

Bonaparte  followed  him  in,  and  closed  the  door 
carefully.  He  put  the  light  down  on  the  heap  of 
dung  in  the  corner,  and  quietly  introduced  his 
hand  under  his  coat-tails,  and  drew  slowly  from 


138  THE  STORY  OP 

his  pocket  the  end  of  a  rope,  which  he  concealed 
behind  him. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  exceedingly  sorry,  Waldo,  my 
lad,  that  you  should  have  acted  in  this  manner. 
It  grieves  me,"  said  Bonaparte. 

He  moved  round  toward  the  boy's  back.  He 
hardly  liked  the  look  in  the  fellow's  eyes,  though 
he  stood  there  motionless.  If  he  should  spring 
on  him ! 

So  he  drew  the  rope  out  very  carefully,  and 
shifted  round  to  the  wooden  post.  There  was  a 
slip-knot  in  one  end  of  the  rope,  and  a  sudden 
^movement  drew  the  boy's  hands  to  his  back  and 
passed  it  round  them.  It  was  an  instant's  work 
to  drag  it  twice  round  the  wooden  post:  then  Bon- 
aparte was  safe. 

For  a  moment  the  boy  struggled  to  free  him- 
self ;  then  he  knew  that  he  was  powerless,  and 
stood  still. 

"  Horses  that  kick  must  have  their  legs  tied," 
said  Bonaparte,  as  he  passed  the  other  end  of  the 
rope  round  the  boy's  knees.  "  And  now,  my 
dear  Waldo,"  taking  the  whip  out  of  his  pocket, 
"  I  am  going  to  beat  you." 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  It  was  perfectly 
quiet ;  they  could  hear  each  other's  breath. 

"  '  Chasten  thy  son  while  there  is  hope,'  "  said 
Bonaparte,  "  '  and  let  not  thy  soul  spare  for  his 
crying.'  Those  are  God's  words.  I  shall  act  as 
a  father  to  you,  Waldo.  I  think  we  had  better 
have  your  naked  back."'. 

He  took  out  his  penknife,  and  slit  the  shirt 
down  from  the  shoulder  to  the  waist. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  139 

«  Now,"  said  Bonaparte,  "I  hope  the  Lord  will 
bless  and  sanctify  to  you  what  I  am  going  to  do 

toThe "first  outran  from  the  shoulder  across  the 
middle  of  the  back ;  the  second  fell  exactly  m  the 
Tame  place.     A  shudder  passed  through  the  boy  s 

^Nice  eh?"  said  Bonaparte,  peeping  round 
into  his  face,  speaking  with  a  lisp,  as  though  to  a 
very  little  child.     "Nithyeh?  :.      . 

But  the  eyes  were  black  and  lusterless,  and 
seemed  not  to  see  him.  When  he  had  given  six- 
^Bonaparte  paused  in  his.  work  to  wipe  a 
little  drop  of  blood  from  his  whip. 

"Cold  eh?  What  makes  you  shiver  so  ? 
Perhaps'you  would  like  to  pull  up  your  shirt? 
But  I've  not  quite  done  yet." 

When  he  had  finished  he  wiped  the  whip  again, 
and  put  it  back  in  his  pocket.  He  cut  the  rope 
through  with  his  penknife,  and  then  took  up  the 

Ug"You  don't  seem  to  have  found  your  tongue 
yet.  Forgotten  how  to  cry?"  said  Bonaparte, 
patting  him  on  the  cheek. 

The  boy  looked  up  at  him— not  sullenly,  not 
angrily.  There  was  a  wild,  fitful  terror  in  the 
eyes.  Bonaparte  made  haste  to  go  out  and  shut 
the  door,  and  leave  him  alone  m  the  darkness. 
He  himself  was  afraid  of  that  look. 

It  was  almost  morning.  "Waldo  lay  'S^S? 

fee  upon  the  ground  at  the  foot  of  the  fuel-heap. 


140  THE  STORY  OF 

There  was  a  round  hole  near  the  top  of  the  door, 
where  a  knot  of  wood  had  fallen  out,  and  a 
stream  of  gray  light  came  in  through  it. 

Ah,  it  was  going  to  end  at  last !  Nothing  lasts 
forever,  not  even  the  light.  How  was  it  he  had 
never  thought  of  that  before  ?  For  in  all  that 
long  dark  night  he  had  been  very  strong,  had 
never  been  tired,  never  felt  pain,  had  run  on  and 
on,  up  and  down,  up  and  down  ;  he  had  not  dared 
to  stand  still,  and  he  had  not  known  it  would  end. 
He  had  been  so  strong,  that  when  he  struck  his 
head  with  all  his  force  upon  the  stone  wall  it  did 
not  stun  him  nor  pain  him — only  made  him  laugh. 
That  was  a  dreadful  night.  When  he  clasped 
his  hands  frantically  and  prayed — "  Oh,  God,  my 
beautiful  God,  my  sweet  God,  once,  only  once, 
let  me  feel  You  near  me  to-night ! "  he  could  not 
feel  Him.  He  prayed  aloud,  very  loud,  and  he 
got  no  answer ;  when  he  listened  it  was  all  quite 
quiet — like  when  the  priests  of  Baal  cried  aloud 
to  their  god—"  Oh,  Baal,  hear  us !  Oh,  Baal, 
hear  us  !  "  but  Baal  was  gone  a-hunting. 

That  was  a  long  wild  night,  and  wild  thoughts 
came  and  went  in  it ;  but  they  left  their  marks 
behind  them  forever  :  for,  as  years  cannot  pass 
without  leaving  their  traces  behind  them,  neither 
can  nights  into  which  are  forced  the  thoughts  and 
sufferings  of  years.  And  now  the  dawn  was  coming, 
and  at  last  he  was  very  tired.  He  shivered,  and 
tried  to  draw  the  shirt  up  over  his  shoulders. 
They  were  getting  stiff.  He  had  never  known 
they  were  cut  in  the  night.  He  looked  up  at  the 
white  light  that  came  in  through  the  hole  at  the 


A  AT  AFRICAN-  FARM.  141 

top  of  the  door  and  shuddered.  Then  he  turned 
his  face  back  to  the  ground  and  slept  again. 

Some  hours  later  Bonaparte  came  toward  the 
fuel-house  with  a  lump  of  bread  in  his  hand.  He 
opened  the  door  and  peered  in;  then  entered, 
and  touched  the  fellow  with  his  boot.  Seeing 
that  he  breathed  heavily,  though  he  did  not  rouse, 
Bonaparte  threw  the  bread  down  on  the  ground. 
He  was  alive,  that  was  one  thing.  He  bent  over 
him,  and  carefully  scratched  open  one  of  the  cuts 
with  the  nail  of  his  forefinger,  examining  witli 
much  interest  his  last  night's  work.  He  would 
have  to  count  his  sheep  himself  that  day  ;  the  boy 
was  literally  cut  up.  He  locked  the  door  and 
went  away  again. 

"Oh,  Lyndall,"  said  Em,  entering  the  dining- 
room,  and  bathed  in  tears,  that  afternoon,  "  I  have 
been  begging  Bonaparte  to  let  him  out,  and  he 
won't." 

"  The  more  you  beg  the  more  he  will  not,'7  said 
Lyndall. 

She  was  cutting  out  aprons  on  the  table. 

"  Oh,  but  it's  late,  and  I  think  they  want  to  kill 
him,"  said  Em,  weeping  bitterly ;  and  finding 
that  no  more  consolation  was  to  be  gained  from 
her  cousin,  she  went  off  blubbering — "  I  wonder 
you  can  cut  out  aprons  when  Waldo  is  shut  up 
like  that." 

For  ten  minutes  after  she  was  gone  Lyndall 
worked  on  quietly ;  then  she  folded  up  her  stuff, 
rolled  it  tightly  together,  and  stood  before  the 
closed  door  of  the  sitting-room  with  her  hands 
closely  clasped.     A  flush  rose  to  her  face  ;  she 


142  THE  STORY  OF 

opened  the  door  quickly,  and  walked  in,  went  to 
the  nail  on  which  the  key  of  the  fuel-room  hung. 
Bonaparte  and  Tant'  Sannie  sat  there  and  saw 
her. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  they  asked  together. 

"  This  key,"  she  said,  holding  it  up,  and  look 
%"Jg  at  them. 

"Do  you  mean  her  to  have  it?"  said  Tant* 
Sannie,  in  Dutch. 

"  Why  don't  you  stop  her  ? "  asked  Bonaparte, 
in  English. 

"  Why  don't  you  take  it  from  her  ?  "  said  Tant* 
Sannie. 

So  they  looked  at  each  other,  talking,  while 
Lyndall  walked  to  the  fuel-house  with  the  key, 
her  underlip  bitten  in. 

"  Waldo,"  she  said,  as  she  helped  him  to  stand 
up,  and  twisted  his  arm  about  her  waist  to  sup- 
port him,  "  we  will  not  be  children  always ;  we 
shall  have  the  power  too,  some  day."  She  kissed 
his  naked  shoulder  with  her  soft  little  mouth. 
It  was  all  the  comfort  her  young  soul  could  give 
him. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

HE  MAKES   LOVE. 

M  Here,"  said  Tant'  Sannie  to  her  Hottentot 
maid,  "  I  have  been  in  this  house  four  years,  and 
never  been  up  in  the  loft.  Fatter  women  than  I 
go  up  ladders  ;  I  will  go  up  to-day  and  see  what 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  143 

it  is  like,  and  put  it  to  rights  up  there.     You  bring 
the  little  ladder,  and  stand  at  the  bottom. 

"There's  one  would  be  sorry  if  you  were  to 
fall,"  said  the  Hottentot  maid,  leering  at  Bona- 
parte's pipe,  that  lay  on  the  table. 

«'  Hold  your  tongue,  jade,"  said  her  mistress 
trying  to  conceal  a  pleased  smile,  "  and  go  and 
fetch  the  ladder." 

There  was  a  never-used  trap-door  at  one  end  ot 
the  sitting-room  ;  this  the  Hottentot  maid  pushed 
open,  and  setting  the  ladder  against  it,  the  Boer- 
woman  with  some  danger  and  difficulty  climbed 
into  the  loft.  Then  the  Hottentot  maid  took  the 
ladder  away,  as  her  husband  was  mending  the 
wagon-house  and  needed  it,  but. the  trap-door  was 

left  open.  ,  , 

For  a  little  while  Tanf  Sannie  poked  about 
among  the  empty  bottles  and  skins,  and  looked 
at  the  bag  of  peaches  that  Waldo  was  supposed 
to  have  liked  so ;  then  she  sat  down  near  the 
trap-door  beside  a  barrel  of  salt  mutton  She 
found  that  the  pieces  of  meat  were  much  too  large, 
and  took  out  her  clasp-knife  to  divide  them 

That  was  always  the  way  when  one  left  things 
to  servants,  she  grurabled  to  herself ;  but  when 
once  she  was  married  to  her  husband  Bonaparte 
it  would  not  matter  whether  a  sheep  spoiled  or 
no— when  once  his  rich  aunt  with  the  dropsy  was 
dead.  She  smiled  as  she  dived  her  hand  into 
the  pickle-water. 

At  that  instant  her  niece  entered  the  room  be* 
low,  closely  followed  by  Bonaparte,  with  his  head 
on  one    side,  smiling   mawkishly.     Had  7  ant 


144  THE  STORY  OF 

Sannie  spoken  at  that  moment  the  life  of  Bona- 
parte Blenkins  would  have  run  a  wholly  different 
course  ;  as  it  was,  she  remained  silent,  and  neither 
noticed  the  open  trap-door  above  their  heads. 

"  Sit  there,  my  love,"  said  Bonaparte,  motion- 
ing Trana  into  her  aunt's  elbow-chair,  and  draw- 
ing another  close  up  in  front  of  it,  in  which  he 
seated  himself.  "  There,  put  your  feet  upon 
the  stove  too.  Your  aunt  has  gone  out  some- 
where. Long  have  I  waited  for  this  auspicious 
event !  " 

Trana,  who  understood  not  one  word  of  English, 
sat  down  in  the  chair  and  wondered  if  this  was 
on&  of  the  strange  customs  of  other  lands,  that 
an  old  gentleman  may  bring  his  chair  up  to  yours, 
and  sit  with  his  knees  touching  you.  She  had 
been  five  days  in  Bonaparte's  company,  and 
feared  the  old  man,  and  disliked  his  nose. 

"  How  long  have  I  desired  this  moment !  "  said 
Bonaparte.  "  But  that  aged  relative  of  thine  is 
always  casting  her  unhallowed  shadow  upon  us. 
Look  into  my  eyes,  Trana." 

Bonaparte  knew  that  she  comprehended  not  a 
syllable ;  but  he  understood  that  it  is  the  eye,  the 
tone,  the  action,  and  not  a*  all  the  rational  word, 
that  touches  the  love-chords.  He  saw  she 
changed  color. 

"  All  night,"  said  Bonaparte,  "  I  lie  awake ; 
I  see  naught  but  thy  angelic  countenance.  I 
open  my  arms  to  receive  thee — where  art  thou, 
where  ?  Thou  art  not  there  !  "  said  Bonaparte, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  words,  and  spreading 
out  his  arms  and  drawing  them  to  his  breast. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  145 

"  Oh,  please,  I  don't  understand,"  said  Trana. 
u  I  want  to  go  away." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Bonaparte,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  to  her  great  relief,  and  pressing  his 
hands  on  his  heart,  "  since  first  thy  amethystine 
countenance  was  impressed  here — what  have  I 
not  suffered,  what  have  I  not  felt?  Oh,  the 
pangs  unspoken,  burning  as  an  ardent  coal  in  a 
fiery  and  uncontaminated  bosom  !  "  said  Bona- 
parte, bending  forward  again. 

"  Dear  Lord  !  "  said  Trana  to  herself,  "  how 
foolish  I  have  been  !  The  old  man  has  a  pain  in 
his  stomach,  and  now,  as  my  aunt  is  out,  he  has 
come  to  me  to  help  him." 

She  smiled  kindly  at  Bonaparte,  and  pushing 
past  him,  went  to  the  bedroom,  quickly  returning 
with  a  bottle  of  red  drops  in  her  hand. 

"  They  are  very  good  for  '  benaawdheit ; '  my 
mother  always  drinks  them,"  she  said,  holding 
the  bottle  out. 

The  face  in  the  trap-door  was  a  fiery  red.  Like 
a  tiger-cat  ready  to  spring,  Tant'  Sannie  crouched, 
with  the  shoulder  of  mutton  in  her  hand.  Exactly 
beneath  .her  stood  Bonaparte.  She  rose  and 
clasped  with  both  arms  the  barrel  of  salt  meat. 

"What,  rose  of  the  desert,  nightingale  of  the 
colony,  that  with  thine  amorous  lay  whilest  the 
lonesome  night ! "  cried  Bonaparte,  seizing  the 
hand  that  held  the  "  vonlicsense."  "  Nay,  strug- 
gle not !  Fly  as  a  stricken  fawn  into  the  arms 
that  would  embrace  thee,  thou " 

Here  a  stream  of  cold  pickle-water,  heavy  wit! 
ribs   and    shoulders,    descending   on   his   head 

10 


I46  THE  STORY  OF 

abruptly  terminated  his  speech.  Half-blinded, 
Bonaparte  looked  up  through  the  drops  that 
hung  from  his  eyelids,  and  saw  the  red  face  that 
looked  down  at  him.  With  one  wild  cry  he  fled. 
As  he  passed  out  at  the  front  door  a  shoulder  of 
mutton,  well  directed,  struck  the  black  coat  in 
the  small  of  the  back. 

"  Bring  the  ladder  !  bring  the  ladder  !  I  will 
go  after  him  !  "  cried  the  Boer-woman,  as  Bona- 
parte Blenkins  wildly  fled  into  the  fields. 


Late  in  the  evening  of  the  same  day  Waldo 
knelt  on  the  floor  of  his  cabin.  He  bathed  the 
foot  of  his  dog  which  had  been  pierced  by  a 
thorn.  The  bruises  on  his  own  back  had  had 
five  days  to  heal  in,  and,  except  a  little  stiffness 
in  his  movements,  there  was  nothing  remarkable 
about  the  boy. 

The  troubles  of  the  young  are  soon  over ;  they 
leave  no  external  mark.  If  you  wound  the  tree 
in  its  youth  the  bark  will  quickly  cover  the 
gash ;  but  when  the  tree  is  very  old,  peeling 
the  bark  off,  and  looking  carefully,  you  will  see 
the  scar  there  still.  All  that  is  buried  is  not 
dead. 

Waldo  poured  the  warm  milk  over  the  little 
swollen  foot ;  Doss  lay  very  quiet,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes.  Then  there  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  In 
an  instant  Doss  looked  wide  awake,  and  winked 
the  tears  out  from  between  his  little  lids. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Waldo,  intent  on  his  workj 
and  slowly  and  cautiously  the  door  opened. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  147 

"Good-evening,  Waldo,  my  boy,"  said  Bona- 
parte Blenkins  in  a  mild  voice,  not  venturing 
more  than  his  nose  within  the  door.  "  How  are 
you  this  evening  ? " 

Doss  growled  and  showed  his  little  teeth,  and 
tried  to  rise,  but  his  paw  hurt  him  so  he  whined. 

"  I'm  very  tired,  Waldo,  my  boy,"  said  Bona- 
parte plaintively. 

Doss  showed  his  little  white  teeth  again.  His 
master  went  on  with  his  work  without  looking 
round.  There  are  some  people  at  whose  hands 
it  is  best  not  to  look.     At  last  he  said, 

"  Come  in." 

Bonaparte  stepped  cautiously  a  little  way  into 
the  room,  and  left  the  door  open  behind  him. 
He  looked  at  the  boy's  supper  on  the  table. 

"  Waldo,  I've  had  nothing  to  eat  all  day— I'm 
very  hungry,"  he  said. 

"  Eat !  "  said  Wraldo  after  a  moment,  bending 
lower  over  his  dog. 

"  You  won't  go  and  tell  her  that  I  am  here, 
will  you,  Waldo  ?  "  said  Bonaparte  most  uneasily. 
"  You've  heard  how  she  used  me,  Waldo?  I've 
been  badly  treated ;  you'll  know  yourself  what  it 
is  some  day  when  you  can't  carry  on  a  little  con- 
versation with  a  lady  without  having  salt  meat 
and  pickle-water  thrown  at  you.  Waldo,  look  at 
me ;  do  I  look  as  a  gentleman  should  ?  " 

But  the  boy  neither  looked  up  nor  answerer1 
and  Bonaparte  grew  more  uneasy. 

"  You  wouldn't  go  and  tell  her  that  I  am  here, 
would  you  ?  "  said  Bonaparte, whiningly.  "  There's 
no  knowing  what  she  would  do  to  me.     I've  such 


148  THE  STORY  OF 

trust  in  you,  Waldo  ;  I've  always  thought  you 
such  a  promising  lad,  though  you  mayn't  have 
known  it,  Waldo." 

"  Eat,"  said  the  boy,  "  I  shall  say  nothing." 

Bonaparte,  who  knew  the  truth  when  another 
spoke  it,  closed  the  door,  carefully  putting  on  the 
button.  Then  he  looked  io  see  that  the  curtain 
of  the  window  was  closely  pulled  down,  and 
seated  himself  at  the  table.  He  was  soon  munch- 
ing the  cold  meat  and  bread.  Waldo  knelt  on 
the  floor,  bathing  the  foot  with  hands  which  the 
dog  licked  lovingly.  Once  only  he  glanced  at 
the  table,  and  turned  away  quickly. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  I  don't  wonder  that  you  can't  look 
at  me,  Waldo,"  said  Bonaparte :  "  my  condition 
would  touch  any  heart.  You  see,  the  water  was 
fatty,  and  that  has  made  all  the  sand  stick  to  me ; 
and  my  hair,"  said  Bonaparte,  tenderly  touching 
the  little  fringe  at  the  back  of  his  head,  "  is  all 
caked  over  like  a  little  plank :  you  wouldn't  think 
it  was  hair  at  all,"  said  Bonaparte,  plaintively. 
"  I  had  to  creep  all  along  the  stone  walls  for  fear 
she'd  see  me,  and  with  nothing  on  my  head  but 
a  red  handkerchief  tied  under,  my  chin,  Waldo  ; 
and  to  hide  in  a  '  sloot '  the  whole  day,  with  not  a 
mouthful  of  food,  Waldo.  And  she  gave  me  such 
a  blow,  just  here,"  said  Bonaparte. 

He  had  cleared  the  plate  of  the  last  morsel, 
when  Waldo  rose  and  walked  to  the  door. 

"  Oh,  Waldo,  my  dear  boy,  you  are  not  going 
to  call  her,"  said  Bonaparte,  rising  anxiously. 

"  I  am  going  to  sleep  in  the  wagon,"  said  the 
boy,  opening  the  door. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  1 49 

"  Oh,  we  can  both  sleep  in  this  bed :  there's 
plenty  of  room.     Do  stay,  my  boy,  please." 

But  Waldo  stepped  out. 

"It  was  such  a  little  whip,  Waldo,"  said  Bona- 
parte, following  him  deprecatingly.  "  I  didn't 
think  it  would  hurt  you  so  much.  It  was  such  a 
little  whip.  I'm  sure  you  didn't  take  the  peaches. 
You  aren't  going  to  call  her,  Waldo,  are  you  ?  " 

But  the  boy  walked  off.  . 

Bonaparte  waited  till  his  figure  had  passed 
round  the  front  of  the  wagon-house,  and  then 
slipped  out.  He  hid  himself  round  the  corner, 
but  kept  peeping  out  to  see  who  was  coming.  He 
felt  sure  the  boy  was  gone  to  call  Tant'  Sannie. 
His  teeth  chattered  with  inward  cold  as  he  looked 
round  into  the  darkness,  and  thought  of  the  snakes 
that  might  bite  him,  and  the  dreadful  things  that 
might  attack  him,  and  the  dead  that  might  arise 
out  of  their  graves  if  he  slept  out  in  the  field  all 
night.  But  more  than  an  hour  passed,  and  no 
footstep  approached. 

Then  Bonaparte  made  his  way  back  to  the 
cabin.  He  buttoned  the  door  and  put  the  table 
against  it,  and,  giving  the  dog  a  kick  to  silence 
his  whining  when  the  foot  throbbed,  he  climbed 
into  bed.  He  did  not  put  out  the  light  for  fear 
of  the  ghost,  but,  worn  out  with  the  sorrows  of 
the  day,  was  soon  asleep  himself. 

About  four  o'clock.  Waldo,  lying  between  the 
seats  of  the  horse-wagon,  was  awakened  by  a 
gentle  touch  on  his  head. 

Sitting  up,  he  espied  Bonaparte  looking  through 
one  of  the  windows  with  a  lighted  candle  in  his 
hand. 


15° 


THE  STORY  OF 


"  I'm  about  to  depart,  my  dear  boy,  before  my 
enemies  arise  ;  and  I  could  not  leave  without 
coming  to  bid  you  farewell,"  said  Bonaparte. 

Waldo  looked  at  him. 

"  I  shall  always  think  of  you  with  affection," 
said  Bonaparte.  "  And  there's  that  old  hat  of 
yours,  if  you  could  let  me  have  it  for  a  keep- 
sake  " 

"Take  it,"  said  Waldo. 

"  I  thought  you  would  say  so,  so  I  brought  it 
with  me,"  said  Bonaparte,  putting  it  on.  "The 
Lord  bless  you,  my  dear  boy.  You  haven't  a 
few  shillings — just  a  trifle  you  don't  need — have 
you  ? " 

"  Take  the  two  shillings  that  are  in  the  broken 
vase." 

"  May  the  blessing  of  my  God  rest  upon  you, 
my  dear  child,"  said  Bonaparte ;  "  may  He  guide 
and  bless  you.     Give  me  your  hand." 

Waldo  folded  his  arms  closely,  and  lay  down. 

"  Farewell,  adieu  !  "  said  Bonaparte.  "  May 
the  blessing  of  my  God  and  my  father's  God  rest 
on  you,  now  and  evermore." 

With  these  words  the  head  and  nose  withdrew 
themselves,  and  the  light  vanished  from  the  win- 
dow. 

After  a  few  moments  the  boy,  lying  in  the 
wagon,  heard  stealthy  footsteps  as  they  passed 
the  wagon-house  and  made  their  way  down  the 
road.  He  listened  as  they  grew  fainter  and 
fainter,  and  at  last  died  away  altogether  ;  and 
from  that  night  the  footstep  of  Bonaparte  Blenkins 
was  heard  no  more  at  the  old  farm. 


Part  II. 


H  And  it  was  all  play,  and  no  one  could  tell  what  it  had 
Hived  and  worked  for.  A  striving,  and  a  striving,  and  an 
ending  in  nothing*" 


CHAPTER  I. 

TIMES   AND   SEASONS. 

Waldo  lay  on  his  stomach  on  the  sand.  Since 
he  prayed  and  howled  to  his  God  in  the  fuel- 
house  three  years  had  passed. 

They  say  that  in  the  world  to  come  time  is  not 
measured  out  by  months  and  years.  Neither  is 
it  here.  The  soul's  life  has  seasons  of  its  own ; 
periods  not  found  in  any  calendar,  times  that 
years  and  months  will  not  scan,  but  which  are  as 
deftly  and  sharply  cut  off  from  one  another  as 
the  smoothly  arranged  years  which  the  earth's 
motion  yields  us. 

To  stranger  eyes  these  divisions  are  not  evi- 
dent ;  but  each,'  looking  back  at  the  little  track 
his  consciousness  illuminates,  sees  it  cut  into  dis- 

15* 


152  THE  STORY  OP 

tinct  portions,  whose  boundaries  are  the  termina- 
tion of  mental  states. 

As  man  differs  from  man,  so  differ  these  souls' 
years.  The  most  material  life  is  not  devoid  of 
them ;  the  story  of  the  most  spiritual  is  told  in 
them.  And  it  may  chance  that  some,  looking 
back,  see  the  past  cut  out  after  this  fashion : 


The  year  of  infancy,  where  from  the  shadowy 
background  of  forgetfulness  start  out  pictures  of 
startling  clearness,  disconnected,  but  brightly 
colored,  and  indelibly  printed  in  the  mind. 
Much  that  follows  fades,  but  the  colors  of  those 
baby-pictures  are  permanent. 

There  rises,  perhaps,  a  warm  summer's  even- 
ing ;  we  are  seated  on  the  doorstep  ;  we  have  yet 
the  taste  of  the  bread  and  milk  in  our  mouth, 
and  the  red  sunset  is  reflected  in  our  basin. 

Then  there  is  a  dark  night  where,  waking  with 
a  fear  that  there  is  some  great  being  in  the 
room,  we  run  from  our  own  bed  to  another,  creep 
close  to  some  large  figure,  and  are  comforted. 

Then  there  is  remembrance  of  the  pride  when, 
on  some  one's  shoulder,  with  our  arms  around 
their  head,  we  ride  to  see  the  little  pigs,  the  new 
little  pigs  with  their  curled  tails  and  tiny  snouts 
■ — where  do  they  come  from  ? 

Remembrance  of  delight  in  the  feel  and  smell 
of  the  first  orange  we  ever  see ;  of  sorrow  which 
makes  us  put  up  our  lip,  and  cry  hard,  when  one 
morning  we  run  out  to  try  and  catch  the  dew- 
drops,  and  they  melt  and  wet  our  little  fingers ; 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  153 

of  almighty  and  despairing  sorrow  when  we  are 
lost  behind  the  kraals,  and  cannot  see  the  house 
anywhere. 

And  then  one  picture  starts  out  more  vividly 
than  any. 

There  has  been  a  thunder-storm  ;  the  ground, 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  is  covered  with  white 
hail ;  the  clouds  are  gone,  and  overhead  a  deep 
blue  sky  is  showing ;  far  off  a  great  rainbow  rests 
on  the  white  earth.  •  We,  standing  in  a  window 
to  look,  feel  the  cool,  unspeakably  sweet  wind 
blowing  in  on  us,  and  a  feeling  of  longing  comes 
over  us — unutterable  longing,  we  cannot  tell  for 
what.  We  are  so  small,  our  head  only  reaches 
as  high  as  the  first  three  panes.  We  look  at  the 
white  earth,  and  the  rainbow,  and  the  blue  sky; 
and  oh,  we  want  it,  we  want — we  do  not  know 
what.  We  cry  as  though  our  heart  was  broken. 
When  one  lifts  our  little  body  from  the  window 
we  cannot  tell  what  ails  us.     We  run  away  to  play. 

So  looks  the  first  year. 

II. 

Now  the  pictures  become  continuous  and  con- 
nected. Material  things  still  rule,  but  the  spirit- 
ual and  intellectual  take  their  places. 

In  the  dark  night  when  we  are  afraid  we  pray 
and  shut  our  eyes.  We  press  our  fingers  very 
hard  upon  the  lids,  and  see  dark  spots  moving 
round  and  round,  and  we  know  they  are  heads 
and  wings  of  angels  sent  to  take  care  of  us,  seen 
dimly  in  the  dark  as  they  move  round  our  bed. 
It  is  very  consoling. 


154  THE  STORY  OF 

In  the  day  we  learn  our  letters,  and  are  troubled 
because  we  cannot  see  why  k-n-o-w  should  be 
know,  and  p-s-a-1-m  psalm.  They  tell  us  it  is 
because  it  is  so.  We  are  not  satisfied  ;  we  hate 
to  learn ;  we  like  better  to  build  little  stone 
houses.  We  can  build  them  as  we  please,  and 
know  the  reason  for  them. 

Other  joys  too  we  have  incomparably  greater 
than  even  the  building  of  stone  houses. 

We  are  run  through  with  a  shudder  of  delight 
when  in  the  red  sand  we  come  on  one  of  those 
white  wax  flowers  that  lie  between  their  two  green 
leaves  flat  on  the  sand.  We  hardly  dare  pick 
them,  but  we  feel  compelled  to  do  so  ;  and  we 
smell  and  smell  till  the  delight  becomes  almost 
pain.  Afterward  we  pull  the  green  leaves 
softly  into  pieces  to  see  the  silk  threads  run 
across. 

Beyond  the  "  kopje "  grow  some  pale-green, 
hairy-leaved  bushes.  We  are  so  small,  they  meet 
over  our  head  ;  and  we  sit  among  them,  and  kiss 
them,  and  they  love  us  back  ;  it  seems  as  though 
they  were  alive. 

One  day  we  sit  there  and  look  up  at  the  blue 
sky,  and  down  at  our  fat  little  knees  ;  and 
suddenly  it  strikes  us,  Who  are  we  ?  This  7, 
what  is  it  ?  We  try  to  look  in  upon  ourself,  and 
ourself  beats  back  upon  ourself.  Then  we  get 
up  in  great  fear  and  run  home  as  hard  as  we  can. 
We  can't  tell  any  one  what  frightened  us.  We 
never  quite  lose  that  feeling  of  self again. 


AN  AFRICA  N  FARM.  155 

III. 

And  then  a  new  time  rises.  We  are  seven 
years  old.  We  can  read  now — read  the  Bible. 
Best  of  all  we  like  the  story  of  Elijah  in  his  cave 
at  Horeb,  and  the  still  small  voice. 

One  day,  a  notable  one,  we  read  on  the  "  kopje  " 
and  discover  the  fifth  chapter  of  Matthew,  and 
read  it  all  through.  It  is  a  new  gold-mine. 
Then  we  tuck  the  Bible  under  our  arm  and  rush 
home.  They  didn't  know  it  was  wicked  to  take 
your  things  again  if  some  one  took  them,  wicked 

to   go   to  law,  wicked  to !     We   are   quite 

breathless  when  we  get  to  the  house;  we  tell 
them  we  have  discovered  a  chapter  they  never 
heard  of ;  we  tell  them  what  it  says.  The  old 
wise  people  tell  us  they  knew  all  about  it.  Our 
discovery  is  a  mare's-nest  to  them  ;  but  to  us  it  is 
very  real.  The  ten  commandments  and  the  old 
"  Thou  shalt  "  we  have  heard  about  long  enough, 
and  don't  care  about  it ;  but  this  new  law  sets 
us  on  fire.  We  will  deny  ourself.  Our  little 
wagon  that  we  have  made,  we  give  to  the  little 
Kaffirs.  We  keep  quiet  when  they  throw  sand 
at  us  (feeling,  oh,  so  happy).  We  conscientiously 
put  the  cracked  teacup  for  ourselves  at  break- 
fast, and  take  the  burnt  roaster-cake.  We  save 
our  money,  and  buy  threepence  of  tobacco  for 
the  Hottentot  maid  who  calls  us  names.  We  are 
exotically  virtuous.  At  night  we  are  profoundly 
religious;  even  the  ticking  watch  says,  "Eternity, 
eternity !  hell,  hell,  hell !  "  and  the  silence  talks 
©f  God,  and  the  things  that  shall  be. 


1 50  THE  STORY  OF 

Occasionally,  also,  unpleasantly  shrewd  ques- 
tions begin  to  be  asked  by  some  one,  we  know 
not  who,  who  sits  somewhere  behind  our  shoulder. 
We  get  to  know  him  better  afterward.  Now  we 
carry  the  questions  to  the  grown-up  people,  and 
they  give  us  answers.  We  are  more  or  less 
satisfied  for  the  time.  The  grown-up  people  are 
very  wise,  and  they  say  it  was  kind  of  God  to 
make  hell,  and  very  loving  of  Him  to  send  men 
there;  and  besides,  He  couldn't  help  Himself; 
and  they  are  very  wise,  we  think,  so  we  believe 
them — more  or  less. 

IV. 

Then  a  new  time  comes,  of  which  the  leading 
feature  is,  that  the  shrewd  questions  are  asked 
louder.  We  carry  them  to  the  grown-up  people  ; 
they  answer  us,  and  we  are  not  satisfied. 

And  now  between  us  and  the  dear  old  world  ot 
the  senses  the  spirit-world  begins  to  peep  in,  and 
wholly  clouds  it  over.  WThat  are  the  flowers  to  us  ? 
They  are  fuel  waiting  for  the  great  burning.  We 
look  at  the- walls  of  the  farm-house  and  the  matter- 
of-fact  sheep-kraals,  with  the  merry  sunshine 
playing  over  all ;  and  do  not  see  it.  But  we  see 
a  great  white  throne,  and  Him  that  sits  on  it 
Around  Him  stand  a  great  multitude  that  no  man 
can  number,  harpers  harping  with  their  harps,  a 
thousand  times  ten  thousand,  and  thousands  of 
thousands.  How  white  are  their  robes,  washed 
in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb  !  And  the  music  rises 
higher,  and  rends  the  vault  of  heaven  with  its 
unutterable   sweetness.     And  we,  as  we  listen, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


*57 


ever  and  anon,  as  it  sinks  on  the  sweetest,  lowest 
note,  hear  a  groan  of  the  damned  from  below. 
We  shudder  in  the  sunlight. 

"  The  torment,"  said  Jeremy  Taylor,  whose 
sermons  our  father  reads  aloud  in  the  evening, 
"  comprises  as  many  torments  as  the  body  of  man 
has  joints,  sinews,  arteries,  etc.,  being  caused  by 
that  penetrating  and  real  fire  of  which  this  tem- 
poral fire  is  but  a  painted  fire.  What  comparison 
will  there  be  between  burning  for  a  hundred 
years'  space  and  to  be  burning  without  intermis- 
sion as  long  as  God  is  God  !  " 

We  remember  the  sermon  there  in  the  sunlight. 
One  comes  and  asks  why  we  sit  there  nodding  so 
moodily.     Ah,  they  do  not  see  what  we  see. 

"  A  moment's  time,  a  narrow  space, 
Divides  me  from  that  heavenly  place, 

Or  shuts  me  up  in  hell."  ( 

So  says  Wesley's  hymn,  which  we  sing  evening 
by  evening.  What  matter  sunshine  and  walls, 
men  and  sheep  ? 

"  The  things  which  are  seen  are  temporal,  but 
the  things  which  are  not  seen  are  eternal."  They 
are  real. 

The  Bible  we  bear  always  in  our  breast ;  its 
pages  are  our  food  ;  we  learn  to  repeat  it ;  we 
weep  much,  for  in  sunshine  and  in  shade,  in  the 
early  morning  or  the  late  evening,  in  the  field  or 
in  the  house,  the  Devil  walks  with  us.  He  comes 
to  us  a  real  person,  copper-colored  face,  head  a 
little  on  one  side,  forehead  knit,  asking  questions. 
Believe  me,  it  were  better  to  be  followed  by  three 


158  THE  STORY  OF 

deadly  diseases  than  by  him.  He  is  never 
silenced — without  mercy.  Though  the  drops  of 
blood  stand  out  on  your  heart  he  will  put  his 
question.  Softly  he  comes  up  (we  are  only  a  wee 
bit  child)  ;  "Is  it  good  of  God  to  make  hell? 
Was  it  kind  of  Him  to  let  no  one  be  forgiven 
unless  Jesus  Christ  died  ?  " 

Then  he  goes  off,  and  leaves  us  writhing. 
Presently  he  comes  back. 

"  Do  you  love  Him  ?  " — waits  a  little.  "  Do 
you  love  Him  ?     You  will  be  lost  if  you  don't." 

We  say  we  try  to. 

"  But  do  you  ?  "     Then  he  goes  off. 

It  is  nothing  to  him  if  we  go  quite  mad  with 
fear  at  our  own  wickedness.  He  asks  on,  the 
questioning  Devil ;  he  cares  nothing  what  he  says. 
We  long  to  tell  some  one,  that  they  may  share 
our  pain.  We  do  not  yet  know  that  the  cup  oi 
affliction  is  made  with  such  a  narrow  mouth  that 
only  one  lip  can  drink  at  a  time,  and  that  each 
man's  cup  is  made  to  match  his  lip. 

One  day  we  try  to  tell  some  one.  Then  a  grave 
head  is  shaken  solemnly  at  us.  We  are  wicked, 
very  wicked,  they  say  ;  we  ought  not  to  have  such 
thoughts.  God  is  good,  very  good.  We  are 
wicked,  very  wicked.  That  is  the  comfort  we 
get.  Wicked  !  Oh,  Lord  !  do  we  not  know  it  ? 
Is  it  not  the  sense  of  our  own  exceeding 
wickedness  that  is  drying  up  our  young  heart, 
filling  it  with  sand,  making  all  life  a  dust-bin  for 
us  ? 

Wicked  ?  We  know  it !  Too  vile  to  live,  too 
vile  to  die,  too  vile  to  creep  over  this,  God's  earth, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  159 

and  move  among  his  believing  men.  Hell  is  the 
one  place  for  him  who  hates  his  master,  and 
there*  we  do  not  want  to  go.  This  is  the  comfort 
we  get  from  the  old. 

And  once  again  we  try  to  seek  for  comfort. 
This  time  great  eyes  look  at  us  wondering,  and 
lovely  little  lips  say, —       • 

"  If  it  makes  you  sc»unhappy  to  think  of  these 
things,  why  do  you  not  think  of  something  else, 
and  forget  ? " 

Forget !  We  turn  away  and  shrink  into  our- 
self.  Forget  and  think  of  other  things!  Oh, 
God !  do  they  not  understand  that  the  material 
world  is  but  a  film,  through  every  pore  of  which 
God's  awful  spirit-world  is  shining  through  on 
us  ?     We  keep  as  far  from  others  as  we  can. 

One  night,  a  rare,  clear  moonlight  night,  we  kneel 
in  the  window ;  every  one  else  is  asleep,  but  we 
kneel  reading  by  the  moonlight.  It  is  a  chapter 
in  the  prophets,  telling  how  the  chosen  people  of 
God  shall  be  carried  on  the  Gentiles'  shoulders. 
Surely  the  Devil  might  leave  us  alone  ;  there  is 
not  much  handle  for  him  there.  But  presently 
he  comes. 

"  Is  it  right  there  should  be  a  chosen  people  ? 
To  him,  who  is  father  to  all,  should  not  all  be 
dear  ?  " 

How  can  we  answer  him  ?  We  were  feeling,  so 
good  till  he  came.  We  put  our  head  down  on 
the  Bible  and  blister  it  with  tears.  Then  we  fold 
our  hands  over  our  head  and  pray,  till  our  teeth 
grind  together.  Oh,  that  from  that  spirit-world, 
so  real  and  yet  so  silent,  that  surrounds  us,  one 


160  THE  STORY  OF 

world  would  come  to  guide  us !  We  are  left 
alone  with  this  Devil ;  and  God  does  not  whisper 
to  us.  Suddenly  we  seize  the  Bible,  turning  it 
round  and  round,  and  say  hurriedly, — 

"  It  will  be  God's  voice  speaking  to  us ;  His 
voice  as  though  we  heard  it." 

We  yearn  for  a  token  from  the  inexorably 
Silent  One.  i 

We  turn  the  book,  put  our  finger  down  on  a 
page,  and  bend  to  read  by  the  moonlight.  It  is 
God's  answer.     We  tremble. 

"  Then  fourteen  years  after  I  went  up  again  to 
Jerusalem  with  Barnabas,  and  took  Titus  with  me 
also." 

For  an  instant  our  imagination  seizes  it ;  we 
are  twisting,  twirling,  trying  to  make  an  allegory. 
The  fourteen  years  are  fourteen  months ;  we  are 

Paul   and   the   Devil    is    Barnabas,  Titus   is ■ 

Then  a  sudden  loathing  comes  to  us  :  we  are  liars 
and  hypocrites,  we  are  trying  to  deceive  ourselves. 
What  is  Paul  to  us — and  Jerusalem  ?  Who  are 
Barnabas  and  Titus  ?  We  know  not  the  men. 
Before  we  know  we  seize  the  book,  swing  it 
c  round  our  head,  and  fling  it  with  all  our  might  to 
the  farther  end  of  the  room.  We  put  down  our 
head  again  and  weep.  Youth  and  ignorance  ;  is 
there  anything  else  that  can  weep  so  ?  It  is  as 
though  the  tears  were  drops  of  blood  congealed 
beneath  the  eyelids ;  nothing  else  is  like  those 
tears.  After  a  long  time  we  are  weak  with  crying, 
and  lie  silent,  and  by  chance  we  knock  against 
the  wood  that  stops  the  broken  pane.  It  falls. 
Upon  our  hot  stiff  face  a  sweet  breath  of  wind 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  161 

blows.  We  raise  our  head,  and  with  our  swollen 
eyes  look  out  at  the  beautiful  still  world,  and  the 
sweet  night-wind  blows  in  upon  us,  holy  and 
gentle,  like  a  loving  breath  from  the  lips  of  God. 
Over  us  a  deep  peace  comes,  a  calm,  still  joy ; 
the  tears  now  flow  readily  and  softly.  Oh,  the 
unutterable  gladness !  At  last,  at  last  we  have 
found  it!  "  The  peace  with  God.".  "  The  sense 
of  sins  forgiven"  All  doubt  vanished,  God's 
voice  in  the  soul,  the  Holy  Spirit  filling  us !  We 
feel  Him !  we  feel  Him  !  Oh,  Jesus  Christ ! 
through  You,  through  You  this  joy !  We  press 
our  hands  upon  our  breast  and  look  upward  with 
adoring  gladness.  Soft  waves  of  bliss  break 
through  us.  "  The  peace  with  God."  "  The  sense 
of  sins  forgiven."  Methodists  and  Revivalists 
say  the  words,  and  the  mocking  world  shoots 
out  its  lip,  and  walks  by  smiling — "  Hypocrite  ! " 

There  are  more  fools  and  fewer  hypocrites 
than  the  wise  world  dreams  of.  The  hypocrite 
is  rare  as  icebergs  in  the  tropics ;  the  fool 
common  as  butter-cups  beside  a  water-furrow : 
whether  you  go  this  way  or  that  you  tread  on  him  ; 
you  dare  not  look  at  your  own  reflection  in  the 
water  but  you  see  one.  There  is  no  cant  phrase, 
rotten  with  age,  but  it  was  the  dress  of  a  living 
body  ;  none  but  at  heart  it  signifies  a  real  bodily 
or  mental  condition  which  some  have  passed 
through. 

After  hours  and  nights  of  frenzied  fear  of  the 

supernatural  desire  to  appease  the  power  above, 

a   fierce  quivering  excitement   in  every    inch  of 

nerve  and  blood-vessel,  there  comes  a  time  when 

ft 


l62  THE  STORY  OF 

nature  cannot  endure  longer,  and  the  spring  long 
bent  recoils.  We  sink  down  emasculated.  Up 
creeps  the  deadly  delicious  calm. 

"  I  have  blotted  out  as  a  cloud  thy  sins,  and 
as  a  thick  cloud  thy  trespasses,  and  will  remem- 
ber them  no  more  forever."  We  weep  with  soft 
transporting  joy. 

A  few  experience  this  ;  many  imagine  they  ex- 
perience it ;  one  here  and  there  lies  about  it.  In 
the  main,  "  The  peace  wTith  God  ;  a  sense  of  sins 
forgiven,"  stands  for  a  certain  mental  and  physi- 
cal reaction.  Its  reality  those  know  who  have 
felt  it. 

And  we,  on  that  moonlight  night,  put  down  our 
head  on  the  window,  "  Oh,  God  !  we  are  happy, 
happy !  Thy  child  forever.  Oh,  thank  You, 
God  !  "  and  we  drop  asleep. 

Next  morning  the  Bible  we  kiss.  We  are 
God's  forever.  We  go  out  to  work,  and  it  goes 
happily  all  day,  happily  all  night ;  but  hardly  so 
happily,  not  happily  at  all,  the  next  day ;  and  the 
next  night  the  Devil  asks  us,  "  Where  is  your 
Holy  Spirit  ?  " 

We  cannot  tell. 

So  month  by  month,  summer  and  winter,  the 
old  life  goes  on — reading,  praying,  weeping,  pray* 
ing.  They  tell  us  we  become  utterly  stupid. 
We  know  it.  Even  the  multiplication  table  we 
learnt  with  so  much  care  we  forget.  The  physi- 
cal world  recedes  further  and  further  from  us. 
Truly  we  love  not  the  world,  neither  the  things 
that  are  in  it.  Across  the  bounds  of  sleep  our 
grief  follows  us.     When  we  wake  in  the  night  we 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  1 63 

are  sitting  up  in  bed  weeping  bitterly,  or  find 
ourself  outside  in  the  moonlight,  dressed,  and 
walking  up  and  down,  and  wringing  our  hands, 
and  we  cannot  tell  how  we  come  there.  So  pass 
two  years,  as  men  reckon  them. 

V. 

Then  a  new  time. 

Before  us  there  were  three  courses  possible^ 
to  go  mad,  to  die,  to  sleep. 

.  We  take  the  latter  course  ;  or  nature  takes  it 
for  us. 

All  things  take  rest  in  sleep  ;  the  beasts,  birds, 
the  very  flowers  close  their  eyes,  and  the  streams 
are  still  in  winter ;  all  things  take  rest ;  then  why 
not  the  human  reason  also  ?  So  the  questioning 
Devil  in  us  drops  asleep,  and  in  that  sleep  a 
beautiful  dream  rises  for  us.  Though  you  hear 
all  the  dreams  of  men,  you  will  hardly  find  a 
prettier  one  than  ours.     It  ran  so : 

In  the  center  of  all  things  is  a  Mighty  Heart, 
which,  having  begotten  all  things,  loves  them ; 
and  having  born  them  into  life,  beats  with  great 
throbs  of  love  toward  them.  No  death  for  His 
dear  insects,  no  hell  for  His  dear  men,  no  burn- 
ing up  for  His  dear  world — His  own,  own  world 
that  He  has  made.  In  the  end  all  will  be  beauti- 
ful. Do  not  ask  us  how  we  make  our  dream 
tally  with  facts;  the  glory  of  a  dream  is  this — - 
that  it  despises  facts,  and  makes  its  own.  Our 
dream  saves  us  from  going  mad  ;  that  is  enough. 

Its  peculiar  point  of  sweetness  lay  here.  When 
the  Mighty  Heart's  yearning  of  love  became  too 


164  THE  STORY  OF 

great  for  other  expression,  it  shaped  itself  into 
the  sweet  Rose  of  heaven,  the  beloved  Man-god. 

Jesus  !  you  Jesus  of  our  dream  !  how  we  loved 
you ;  no  Bible  tells  of  you  as  we  knew  you. 
Your  sweet  hands  held  ours  fast ;  your  sweet 
voice  said  always,  "  I  am  here,  my  loved  one,  not 
far  off ;  put  your  arms  about  Me,  and  hold  fast." 

We  find  Him  in  everything  in  those  days. 
When  the  little^weary  lamb  we  drive  home  drags 
its  feet,  we  seize  on  it,  and  carry  it  with  its  head 
against  our  face.  His  little  lamb  !  We  feel  we 
have  got  Him. 

When  the  drunken  Kaffir  lies  by  the  road  in 
the  sun  we  draw  his  blanket  over  his  head,  and 
put  green  branches  of  milk-bush  on  it.  His 
Kaffir  ;  why  should  the  sun  hurt  him  ? 

In  the  evening,  when  the  clouds  lift  themselves 
like  gates,  and  the  red  lights  shine  through  them, 
we  cry ;  for  in  such  glory  He  will  come,  and  the 
hands  that  ache  to  touch  Him  will  hold  Him,  and 
we  shall  see  the  beautiful  hair  and  eyes  of  our 
God.  "  Lift  up  your  heads,  O  ye  gates  ;  and  be 
ye  lifted  up,  ye  everlasting  doors,  and  our  King 
of  glory  shall  come  in  !  " 

'  The  purple  flowers,  the  little  purple  flowers,  are 
His  eyes,  looking  at  us.  We  kiss  them,  and 
kneel  alone  on  the  flat,  rejoicing  over  them.  And 
the  wilderness  and  the  solitary  place  shall  be  glad 
for  Him,  and  the  desert  shall  rejoice  and  blossom 
as  a  rose. 

If  ever  in  our  tearful,  joyful  ecstasy  the  poor 
sleepy,  half-dead  Devil  should  raise  his  head,  we 
laugh  at  him.    It  is  not  his  hour  now. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  165 

"  If  there  should  be  a  hell,  after  all !  "  he 
mutters.  "  If  your  God  should  be  cruel !  If  tliero 
should  be  no  God  !  If  you   should  find  out  it  is 

all  imagination  !  If " 

We  laugh  at  him.  When  a  man  sits  in  the 
warm  sunshine,  do  you  ask  him  for  proof  of  it  ? 
He  feels—that  is  all.  And  we  feel— that  is  all. 
We  want  no  proof  of  our  God.  We  feel,  we 
feel ! 

We  do  not  believe  in  our  God  because  the  Bible 
tells  us  of  Him.  We  believe  in  the  Bible  because 
He  tells  us  of  it.  We  feel  Him,  we  feel  Him,  we 
feel— that  is  all !  And  the  poor  half-swamped 
Devil  mutters, — 

"  But  if  the  day  should  come  when  you  do  not 
feel ? " 

And  we  laugh,  and  cry  him  down. 
"  It  will  never  come — never,"  and  'the  poor 
Devil  slinks  to  sleep  again,  with  his  tail  between 
his  legs.  Fierce  assertion  many  times  repeated 
is  hard  to  stand  against ;  only  time  separates  the 
truth  from  the  lie.     So  we  dream  on. 

One  day  we  go  with  our  father  to  town,  to 
church.  The  townspeople  rustle  in  their  silks,  and 
the  men  in  their  sleek  cloth,  and  settle  themselves 
in  their  pews,  and  the  light  shines  in  through  the 
windows  on  the  artificial  flowers  in  the  women's 
bonnets.  We  have  the  same  miserable  feeling 
that  we  have  in  a  shop  where  all  the  clerks  are 
very  smart.  We  wish  our  father  hadn't  brought 
us  to  town,  and  we  were  out  on  the  karroo.  Then 
the  man  in  the  pulpit  begins  to  preach.  His 
text  is,  "  He  that  believeth  not  shall  be  damned." 


1 66  THE  STORY  OF 

The  day  before  the  magistrate's  clerk,  who  was 
an  atheist,  has  died  in  the  street  struck  by  light- 
ning. 

The  man  in  the  pulpit  mentions  no  name ;  but 
he  talks  of  "  The  hand  of  God  made  visible 
among  us."  He  tells  us  how,  when  the  white 
stroke  fell,  quivering  and  naked,  the  soul  fled, 
robbed  of  his  earthly  filament,  and  lay  at  the 
footstool  of  God;  how  over  its  head  has  been 
poured  out  the  wrath  of  the  Mighty  One,  whose 
existence  it  has  denied  ;  and,  quivering  and  ter- 
rified, it  has  fled  to  the  everlasting  shade. 

We,  as  we  listen,  half  start  up ;  every  drop  of 
blood  in  our  body  has  rushed  to  our  head.  He 
lies  !  he  lies  !  he  lies  !  That  man  in  the  pulpit 
lies  !  Will  no  one  stop  him  ?  Have  none  of 
them  heard — do  none  of  them  know,  that  when 
the  poor  dark  soul  shut  its  eyes  on  earth  it 
opened  them  in  the  still  light  of  heaven  ?  that 
there  is  no  wrath  where  God's  face  is  ?  that  if 
one  could  once  creep  to  the  footstool  of  God, 
there  is  everlasting  peace  there  ?  like  the  fresh 
stillness  of  the  early  morning.  While  the  atheist 
lay  wondering  and  afraid,  God  bent  down  and 
said,  "  My  child,  here  I  am — I,  whom  you  have 
not  known  ;  I,  whom  you  have  not  believed  in  ;  I 
am  here.  I  sent  My  messenger,  the  white  sheet 
lightning,  to  call  you  home.    I  am  here." 

Then  the  poor  soul  turned  to  the  light,— its 
weakness  and  pain  were  gone  forever. 

Have  they  not  known,  have  they  not  heard, 
who  it  is  rules  ? 

"  For  a  little  moment  have  I  hidden  My  face 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  167 

from  thee  ;  but  with  everlasting  kindness  will  I 
have  mercy  upon  thee,  saith  the  Lord  thy 
Redeemer." 

We  mutter  on  to  ourselves,  till  someone  pulls 
us  violently  by  the  arm  to  remind  us  we  are  in 
church.     We  see  nothing  but  our  own  ideas. 

Presently  every  one  turns  to  pray.  There  are 
six  hundred  souls  lifting  themselves  to  the  Ever- 
lasting light. 

Behind  us  sit  two  pretty  ladies  ;  one  hands  her 
scent-bottle  softly  to  the  other,  and  a  mother 
pulls  down  her  little  girl's  frock.  One  lady  drops 
her  handkerchief  ;  a  gentleman  picks  it  up  ;  she 
blushes.  The  women  in  the  choir  turn  softly 
the  leaves  of  their  tune-books,  to  be  ready  when 
the  praying  is  done.  It  is  as  though  they  thought 
more  of  the  singing  than  the  Everlasting  Father. 
Oh,  would  it  not  be  more  worship  of  Him  to  sit 
alone  in  the  karroo  and  kiss  one  little  purple  flower 
that  He  had  made  ?  Is  it  not  mockery  ?  Then  the 
thought  comes,  "  What  doest  thou  here,  Elijah  ?  " 
We  who  judge,  what  are  we  better  than  they  ? — 
rather  worse.  Is  it  any  excuse  to  say,  "  I  am 
but  a  child  and  must  come  "  ?  Does  God  allow 
any  soul  to  step  in  between  the  spirit  He  made 
and  Himself  ?  What  do  we  there  in  that 
place,  where'  all  the  words  are  lies  against  the 
All-Father  ?  Filled  with  horror,  we  turn  and  flee 
out  of  the  place.  On  the  pavement  we  smite  our 
foot  and  swear  in  our  child's  soul  never  again  tc 
enter  those  places  where  men  come  to  sing  and 
pray.  We  are  questioned  afterward.  Why  was 
it  we  went  out  of  the  church  ? 


1 68  THE  STORY  OF 

How  can  we  explain  ? — we  stand  silent.  Then 
we  are  pressed  further,  and  we  try  to  tell.  Then 
a  head  is  shaken  solemnly  at  us.  No  one  can 
think  it  wrong  to  go  to  the  house  of  the  Lord  :  it 
is  the  idle  excuse  of  a  wicked  boy.  When  will 
we  think  seriously  of  our  souls,  and  love  going  to 
church  ?  We  are  wicked,  very  wicked.  And  we 
— we  slink  away  and  go  alone  to  cry.  Will  it  be 
always  so  ?  Whether  we  hate  and  doubt,  or 
whether  we  believe  and  love,  to  our  dearest,  are 
we  to  seem  always  wicked  ? 

We  do  not  yet  know  that  in  the  soul's  search 
for  truth  the  bitterness  lies  here,  the  striving  can- 
not always  hide  itself  among  the  thoughts  ;  sooner 
or  later  it  will  clothe  itself  in  outward  action, 
then  it  steps  in  and  divides  between  the  soul 
and  what  it  loves.  All  things  on  earth  have  their 
price ;  and  for  truth  we  pay  the  dearest.  We 
Darter  it  for  love  and  sympathy.  The  road  to 
honor  is  paved  with  thorns  ;  but  on  the  path  to 
truth,  at  every  step  you  set  your  foot  down  on 
your  own  heart. 

VI. 

Then  at  last  a  new  time — the  time  of  waking  r 
short,  sharp,  and  not  pleasant,  as  wakings  often 
are. 

Sleep  and  dreams  exist  on  this  condition — that 
no  one  wake  the  dreamer. 

And  now  life  takes  us  up  between  her  finger 
and  thumb,  shakes  us  furiously,  till  our  poor  nod- 
ding head  is  well-nigh  rolled  from  our  shoulders, 
and  she  sets  us  down  a  little  hardly  on  the  bare 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  169 

earrti,  bruised  and  sore,  but  preternaturally  wide 
awake. 

We  have  said  in  our  days  of  dreaming,  "  In- 
justice and  wrong  are  a  seeming ;  pain  is  a  shadow. 
Our  God,  He  is  real.  He  who  made  all  things, 
and  He  only  is  Love." 

Now  life  takes  us  by  the  neck  and  shows  us  a 
few  other  things, — new-made  graves  with  the  red 
sand  flying  about  them  ;  eyes  that  we  love  with 
the  worms  eating  them  ;  evil  men  walking  sleek 
and  fat,  the  whole  terrible  hurly-burly  of  the  thing 
called  life, — and  she  says,  "  What  do  you  think  of 
these  ? "  We  dare  not  say  "  Nothing."  We  feel 
them  ;  they  are  very  real.  But  we  try  to  lay  our 
hands  about  and  feel  that  other  thing  we  felt 
before.  In  the  dark  night  in  the  fuel-room  we 
cry  to  our  Beautiful  dream-god — "  Oh,  let  us  come 
near  you,  and  lay  our  head  against  your  feet. 
Now  in  our  hour  of  need  be  near  us."  But  he  is 
not  there  ;  he  is  gone  away.  The  old  question- 
ing Devil  is  there. 

We  must  have  been  awakened  sooner  or  later. 
The  imagination  cannot  always  triumph  over 
reality,  the  desire  over  truth.  We  must  have  been 
awakened.  If  it  was  done  a  little  sharply,  what 
matter  ?  it  was  done  thoroughly,  and  it  had  to  be 
done. 

VII. 

And  a  new  life  begins  for  us — a  new  time,  a 
life  as  cold  as  that  of  a  man  who  sits  on  the  pin- 
acle  of  an  iceberg  and  sees  the  glittering  crystals 
all  about  him.     The  old  looks  indeed  hke  a  long 


170  THE  STORY  OF 

hot  delirium,  peopled  with  phantasies.  The  new 
is  cold  enough. 

Now  we  have  no  God.  We  have  had  two  :  the 
old  God  that  our  fathers  handed  down  to  us,  that 
we  hated,  and  never  liked ;  the  new  one  that  we 
made  for  ourselves,  that  we  loved :  but  now  he 
has  flitted  away  from  us,  and  we  see  what  he 
was  made  of — the  shadow  of  our  highest  ideal, 
crowned  and  throned.     Now  we  have  no  God. 

"  The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  There  is  no 
God."  It  may  be  so.  Most  things  said  or  written 
have  been  the  work  of  fools. 

This  thing  is  certain — he  is  a  fool  who  says, 
"  No  man  hath  said  in  his  heart,  There  is  no 
God." 

It  has  been  said  many  thousand  times  in  hearts 
with  profound  bitterness  of  earnest  faith. 

We  do  not  cry  and  weep ;  we  sit  down  with 
cold  eyes  and  look  at  the  world.  We  are  not 
miserable.  Why  should  we  be?  We  eat  and 
drink,  and  sleep  all  night ;  but  the  dead  are  not 
colder. 

And,  we  say  it  slowly,  but  without  sighing, 
"  Yes,  we  see  it  now  :  There  is  no  God." 

And,  we  add,  growing  a  little  colder  yet, 
"There  is  no  justice.  The  ox  dies  in  the  yoke, 
beneath  its  master's  whip  ;  it  turns  its  anguish- 
filled  eyes  on  the  sunlight,  but  there  is  no  sign  of 
recompense  to  be  made  it.  The  black  man  is 
shot  like  a  dog,  and  it  goes  well  with  the  shooter. 
The  innocent  are  accused,  and  the  accuser 
triumphs.  If  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  scratch 
the   surface   anywhere,  you  will   see   under  ther 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


171 


skin    a   sentient    being    writhing    in         potent 
anguish." 

And,  we  say  further,  and  our  heart  is  as  the 
heart  of  the  dead  for  coldness,  "  There  is  no 
order :  all  things  are  driven  about  by  a  blind 
chance." 

What  a  soul  drinks  in  with  its  mother's  milk 
will  not  leave  it  in  a  day.  From  our  earliest 
hour  we  have  been  taught  that  the  thought  of  the 
heart,  the  shaping  of  the  rain-cloud,  the  amount 
of  wool  that  grows  on  a  sheep's  back,  the  length 
of  a  draught,  and  the  growing  of  the  corn, 
depend  on  nothing  that  moves  immutable,  at  the 
heart  of  all  things  ;  but  on  the  changeable  will  of  a 
changeable  being,  whom  our  prayers  can  alter. 
To  us,  from  the  beginning,  nature  has  been  but 
a  poor  plastic  thing,  to  be  toyed  with  this  way  or 
that,  as  man  happens  to  please  his  deity  or  not ; 
to  go  to  church  or  not ;  to  say  his  prayers  right 
or  not ;  to  travel  on  a  Sunday  or  not.  Was  it  pos- 
sible for  us  in  an  instant  to  see  Nature  as  she  is 
— rthe  flowing  vestment  of  an  unchanging  reality  ? 
When  a  soul  breaks  free  from  the  arms  of  a 
superstition,  bits  of  the  claws  and  talons  break 
themselves  off  in  him.  It  is  not  the  work  of  a 
day  to  squeeze  them  out. 

And  so,  for  us,  "the  human-like  driver  and 
guide  being  gone,  all  existence,  as  we  look  out 
at  it  with  our  chilled,  wondering  eyes,  is  an  aim- 
less rise  and  swell  of  shifting  waters.  In  all  that 
weltering  chaos  we  can  see  no  spot  so  large  as  a 
man's  hand  on  which  we  may  plant  our  foot. 

Whether  a  man  believes  in  a  human-like  God 


172  THE  STORY  OF 

or  no  is  a  small  thing.  Whether  lie  looks  into 
the  mental  or  physical  world  and  sees  no  relation 
between  cause  and  effect,  no  order,  but  a  blind 
chance  sporting,  this  is  the  mightiest  fact  that  can 
be  recorded  in  any  spiritual  existence.  It  were 
almost  a  mercy  to  cut  his  throat,  if  indeed  he  does 
not  do  it  for  himself. 

We,  however,  do  not  cut  our  throats.  To  do 
so  would  imply  some  desire  and  feeling,  and  we 
have  no  desire  and  no  feeling ;  we  are  only  cold. 
We  do  not  wish  to  live,  and  we  do  not  wish  to  die. 
One  day  a  snake  curls  itself  round  the  waist  of  a 
Kaffir  woman.  We  take  it  in  our  hand,  swing  it 
round  and  round,  and  fling  it  on  the  ground — 
dead.  Every  one  looks  at  us  with  eyes  of  admira- 
tion. We  almost  laugh.  Is  it  wonderful  to  risk 
that  for  which  we  care  nothing  ? 

In  truth,  nothing  matters.  This  dirty  little 
world  full  of  confusion,  and  the  blue  rag,  stretched 
overhead  for  a  sky,  is  so  low  we  could  touch  it 
with  our  hand. 

Existence  is  a  great  pot,  and  the  old  Fate  who 
stirs  it  round  cares  nothing  what  rises  to  the  top 
and  what  goes  down,  and  laughs  when  the  bub- 
bles burst.  And  we  do  not  care.  Let  it  boil 
about.  WThy  should  we  trouble  ourselves  ? 
Nevertheless  the  physical  sensations  are  real. 
Hunger  hurts,  and  thirst,  therefore  we  eat  and 
drink  :  inaction  pains  us,  therefore  we  work  like 
galley-slaves.  No  one  demands  it,  but  we  set 
ourselves  to  build  a  great  dam  in  red  sand  be- 
yond the  graves.  In  the  gray  dawn  before  the 
eheep  are  let  out  we  work  at  it,    fdl  day,  white 


A  AT  AFRICAAT  FARM.  173 

the  young  ostriches  we  tend  feed  about  us,  we 
work  on  through  the  fiercest  heat.  The  people 
wonder  what  new  spirit  has  seized  us  now.  They 
do  not  know  we  are  working  for  life.  We  bear 
the  greatest  stones,  and  feel  a  satisfaction  when 
we  stagger  under  them,  and  are  hurt  by  a  pang 
that  shoots  through  our  chest.  While  we  eat  our 
dinner  we  carry  on  baskets  full  of  earth,  as 
though  the  Devil  drove  us.  The  Kaffir  servants 
have  a  story  that  at  night  a  witch  and  two  white 
oxen  come  to  help  us.  No  wall,  they  say,  could 
grow  so  quickly  under  one  man's  hands. 

At  night,  alone  in  our  cabin,  we  sit  no  more 
brooding  over  the  fire.  What  should  we  think 
of  now  ?  All  is  emptiness.  So  we  take  the  old 
arithmetic:  and  the  multiplication  table,  which 
with  so  much  pains  we  learnt  long  ago  and  forgot 
directly,  we  learn,  now  in  a  few  hours,  and  never  for- 
get again.  We  take  a  strange  satisfaction  in  work- 
ing arithmetical  problems.  We  pause  in  our 
building  to  cover  the  stones  with  figures  and  cal- 
culations. We  save  money  for  a  Latin  Grammar 
and  an  Algebra,  and  carry  them  about  in  our 
pockets,  poring  over  them  as  over  our  Bible  of 
old.  We  have  thought  we  were  utterly  stupid, 
incapable  of  remembering  anything,  of  learning 
anything.  Now  we  find  that  all  is  easy.  Has 
a  new  soul  crept  into  this  old  body,  that  even 
our  intellectual  faculties  are  changed  ?  We 
marvel ;  not  perceiving  that  what  a  man  expends 
in  prayer  and  ecstasy  he  cannot  have  over  for 
acquiring  knowledge.  You  never  shed  a  tear,  or 
create  a  beautiful  image,  or  quiver  with  emotion, 


174  THE  STORY  OF 

but  you  pay  for  it  at  the  practical,  calculating- 
end  of  your  nature.  You  have  just  so  much 
force  :  when  the  one  channel  runs  over  the  other 
runs  dry. 

And  now  we  turn  to  Nature.  All  these  years 
we  have  lived  beside  her,  and  we  have  never 
seen  her  ;  now  we  open  our  eyes  and  look  at  her. 

The  rocks  have  been  to  us  a  blur  of  brown ; 
we  bend  over  them,  and  the  disorganized  masses 
dissolve  into  a  many-colored,  many-shaped,  care- 
fully-arranged form  of  existence.  Here  masses 
of  rainbow-tinted  crystals,  half-fused  together : 
their  bands  of  smooth  gray  and  red  methodically 
overlying  each  other.  This  rock  here  is  covered 
with  a  delicate  silver  tracery,  in  some  mineral,  re- 
sembling leaves  and  branches ;  there  on  the  flat 
stone,  on  which  we  so  often  have  sat.to  weep  and 
pray,  we  look  down,  and  see  it  covered  with  the 
fossil  footprints  of  great  birds,  and  the  beautiful 
skeleton  of  a  fish.  We  have  often  tried  to  picture 
in  our  mind  what  the  fossilized  remains  of  creatures 
must  be  like,  and  all  the  while  we  sat  on  them. 
We  have  been  so  blinded  by  thinking  and  feeling 
that  we  have  never  seen  the  world. 

The  flat  plain  has  been  to  us  a  reach  of  monot- 
onous red.  We  look  at  it,  and  every  handful 
of  sand  starts  into  life.  That  wonderful  people, 
the  ants,  we  learn  to  know ;  see  them  make  war 
and  peace,  play  and  work,  and  build  their  huge 
palaces.  And  that  smaller  people  we  make  ac- 
quaintance with,  who  live  in  the  flowers.  The 
bitto  flower  had  been  for  us  a  mere  blur  of  yellow  ; 
we   find  its  heart  composed  of   a  hundred   per- 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  1 7 5 

feet  flowevs,  the  homes  of  the  tiny  black  people 
with  red  stripes,  who  move  in  and  out  in  that 
little  yellow  city.  Every  bluebell  has  its  inhabit- 
ant. Every  day  the  karroo  shows  up  a  new 
wonder  sleeping  in  its  teeming  bosom.  On  our 
way  to  work  we  pause  and  stand  to  see  the  ground 
spider  make  its  trap,  bury  itself  in  the  sand,  and 
then  wait  for  the  falling  in  of  its  enemy.  Farther 
on  walks  a  horned  beetle,  and  near  him  starts 
open  the  door  of  a  spider,  who  peeps  out  care- 
fully, and  quickly  puts  it  down  again.  On  a  kar- 
roo-bush a  green  fly  is  laying  her  silver  eggs.  We 
carry  them  home,  and  see  the  shells  pierced,  the 
spotted  grub  come  out,  turn  to  a  green  fly,  and 
flit  away.  We  are  not  satisfied  with  what  Nature 
shows  us,  and  will  see  something  for  ourselves. 
Under  the  white  hen  we  put  a  dozen  eggs,  and 
break  one  daily,  to  see  the  white  spot  wax  into 
the  chicken.  We  are  not  excited  or  enthusiastic 
about  it ;  but  a  man  is  not  to  lay  his  throat  open, 
he  must  think  of  something.  So  we  plant  seeds 
in  rows  on  our  dam-wall,  and  pull  one  up  daily 
to  see  how  it  goes  with  them.  Alladeen  buried 
her  wonderful  stone,  and  a  golden  palace  sprang 
up  at  her  feet.  We  do  far  more.  We  put  a 
brown  seed  in  the  earth,  and  a  living  thing  starts 
out — starts  upward — why,  no  more  than  Alladeen 
can  we  say — starts  upward,  and  does  not  desist 
till  it  is  higher  than  our  heads,  sparkling  with  dew 
in  the  early  morning,  glittering  with  yellow  blos- 
soms, shaking  brown  seeds  with  little  embryo 
souls  on  to  the  ground.  We  look  at  it  solemnly, 
from  the  time  it  consists  of  two  leaves  peeping 


176  THE  STORY  OF 

above  the  ground  and  a  soft  white  root,  till  we 
have  to  raise  out  faces  to  look  at  it ;  but  we  find 
no  reason  for  that  upward  starting. 

We  look  into  dead  ducks  and  lambs.  In  the 
evening  we  carry  them  home,  spread  newspapers 
on  the  floor,  and  lie  working  with  them  till  mid- 
night.  With  a  startled  feeling  near  akin  to  ecstasy 
we  open  the  lump  of  flesh  called  a  heart,  and 
find  little  doors  and  strings  inside.  We  feel  them, 
and  put  the  heart  away ;  but  every  now  and  then 
return  to  look,  and  to  feel  them  again.  Why  we 
like  them  so  we  can  hardly  tell. 

A  gander  drowns  itself  in  our  dam.  We  take 
it  out,  and  open  it  on  the  bank,  and  kneel,  looking 
at  it.  Above  are  the  organs  divided  by  delicate 
tissues  ;  below  are  the  intestines  artistically  curved 
in  a  spiral  form,  and  each  tier  covered  by  a  delicate 
network  of  blood-vessels  standing  .out  red  against 
the  faint  blue  background.  Each  branch  of  the 
blood-vessels  is  comprised  of  a  trunk,  bifurcating 
and  rebifurcating  into  the  most  delicate,  hair- 
like threads,  symmetrically  arranged.  We  are 
struck  with  its  singular  beauty.  And,  moreover 
— and  here  we  drop  from  our  kneeling  into  a  sit- 
ting posture — this  also  we  remark  :  of  that  same 
exact  shape  and  outline  is  our  thorn-tree  seen 
against  the  sky  in  mid-winter :  of  that  shape  also 
is  delicate  metallic  tracery  between  our  rocks  ; 
in  that  exact  path  does  our  water  flow  when  with- 
out a  furrow  we  lead  it  from  the  dam  ;  so  shaped 
are  the  antlers  of  the  horned  beetle.  How  are 
these  things  related  that  such  deep  union  should 
exist  between  them  all  ?    Is  it  chance  ?    Or,  are 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  1 7  7 

they  not  all  the  fine  branches  of  one  trunk,  whose 
sap  flows  through  us  all  ?  That  would  explain  it. 
We  nod  over  the  gander's  inside. 

This  thing  we  call  existence ;  is  it  not  a  some* 
thing  which  has  its  roots  far  down  below  in  the 
dark,  and  its  branches  stretching  out  into  the 
immensity  above,  which  we  among  the  branches 
tannot  see  ?  Not  a  chance  jumble ;  a  living  thing, 
a  One.  The  thought  gives  us  intense  satisfaction, 
we  cannot  tell  why. 

We  nod  over  the  gander ;  then  start  up  sud- 
denly, look  into  the  blue  sky,  throw  the  dead 
gander  and  the  refuse  into  the  dam,  and  go  to 
work  again.  V***— -i 

And  so,  it  comes  to  pass  in  time,  that  the  earth 
ceases  for  us  to  be  a  weltering  chaos.  We  walk  I 
in  the  great  hall  of  life,  looking  up  and  round  rev-  j 
erentially.  Nothing  is  despicable — all  is  mean- 
ing-full ;  nothing  is  small — all  is  part  of  a  whole,  I 
whose  beginning  and  end  we  know  not.  The  life  j 
that  throbs  in  us  is  a  pulsation  from  it ;  too  mighty  j 
for  our  comprehension,  not  too  small.  2*"  ^ 

And  so,  it  comes  to  pass  at  last,  that  whereas 
the  sky  was  at  first  a  small  blue  rag  stretched  out 
over  ds;  and  so  low  that  our  hands  might  touch 
it,  pressing  down  on  us,  it  raises  itself  into  an 
immeasurable  blue  arch  over  our  heads,  and  we  . 
begin  to  live  again. 
13 


CHAPTER  IL 

Waldo's  stranger 

Waldo  lay  on  his  stomach  on  the  red  sand. 
The  small  ostriches  he  herded'  wandered  about 
him,  pecking  at  the  food  he  had  cut,  or  at  pebbles 
and  dry  sticks.  On  his  right  lay  the  graves ;  to 
his  left  the  dam  ;  in  his  hand  was  a  large  wooden 
post  covered  with  carvings,  at  which  he  worked. 
Doss  lay  before  him  basking  in  the  winter  sun- 
shine, and  now  and  again  casting  an  expectant 
glance  at  the  corner  of  the  nearest  ostrich-camp. 
The  scrubby  thorn-trees  under  which  they  lay 
yielded  no  shade,  but  none  was  needed  in  that 
glorious  June  weather,  when  in  the  hottest  part 
of  the  afternoon  the  sun  was  but  pleasantly  warm ; 
and  the  boy  carved  on,  not  looking  up,  yet  con- 
scious of  the  brown  serene  earth  about  him  and 
the  intensely  blue  sky  above. 

Presently,  at  the  corner  of  the  camp,  Em  ap- 
peared, bearing  a  covered  saucer  in  one  hand,  and 
in  the  other  a  jug  with  a  cup  in  the  top.  She  was 
grown  into  a  premature  little  old  woman  of  sixteen, 
ridiculously  fat.  The  jug  and  saucer  she  put 
down  on  the  ground  before  the  dog  and  his  master, 
and  dropped  down  beside  them  herself,  panting 
and  out  of  breath. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


79 


"  Waldo,  as  I  came  up  the  camps  I  met  some 
one  on  horseback ;  and  I  do  believe  it  must  be 
the  new  man  that  is  coming." 

The  new  man  was  an  Englishman  to  whom  the 
Boer-woman  had  hired  half  the  farm. 

"  Hum  !  "  said  Waldo. 

"  He  is  quite  young,"  said  Em,  holding  her 
side,  "  and  he  has  brown  hair,  and  beard  curling 
close  to  his  face,  and  such  dark  blue  eyes.  And, 
Waldo,  I  was  so  ashamed !  I  was  just  looking 
back  to  see,  you  know,  and  he  happened  just  to 
be  looking  back  too,  and  we  looked  right  into 
each  other's  faces  ;  and  he  got  red,  and  I  got  so 
red.     I  believe  he  is  the  new  man." 

"  Yes,"  said  Waldo. 

"I must  go  now.  Perhaps  he  has  brought  us 
letters  from  the  post  from  Lyndall.  You  know 
she  can't  stay  at  school  much  longer,  she  must 
come  back  soon.  And  the  new  man  will  have  to 
stay  with  us  till  his  house  is  built.  I  must  get 
his  room  ready.     Good-bye  !  " 

She  tripped  off  again,  and  Waldo  carved  on  at 
his  post.  Doss  lay  with  his  nose  close  to  the 
covered  saucer,  and  smelt  that  some  one  had 
made  nice  little  fat  cakes  that  afternoon.  Both 
were  so  intent  on  their  occupation  that  not  till  a 
horse's  hoofs  beat  beside  them  in  the  sand  did 
they  look  up  to  see  a  rider  drawing  in  his  steed. 

He  was  certainly  not  the  stranger  whom  Em 
had  described.  A  dark,  somewhat  French-look- 
ing little  man  of  eight-and-twenty,  rather  stout, 
with  heavy,  cloudy  eyes  and  pointed  mustache. 
His  horse  was  a  fiery  creature,  well  caparisoned  \ 


180  THE  STOK  V  OF 

a  highly-finished  saddle-bag  hung  from  the  saddle? 
the  man's  hands  were  gloved,  and  he  presented 
the  appearance — an  appearance  rare  on  that 
farm — of  a  well-dressed  gentleman. 

In  an  uncommonly  melodious  voice  he  inquired 
whether  he  might  be  allowed  to  remain  there  for 
an  hour.  Waldo  directed  him  to  the  farm-house, 
but  the  stranger  declined.  He  would  merely  rest 
under  the  trees,  and  give  his  horse  water.  He 
removed  the  saddle,  and  Waldo  led  the  animal 
away  to  the  dam.  When  he  returned,  the  stranger 
had  settled  himself  under  the  trees,  with  his  back 
against  the  saddle.  The  boy  offered  him  of  the 
cakes.  He  declined,  but  took  a  draught  from 
the  jug ;  and  Waldo  lay  down  not  far  off,  and 
fell  to  work  again.  It  mattered  nothing  if  cold 
eyes  saw  it.  It  was  not  his  sheep-shearing 
machine.  With  material  loves,  as  with  human, 
Ave  go  mad  once,  love  out,  and  have  done.  We 
«never  get  up  the  true  enthusiasm  a  second  time. 
This  was  but  a  thing  he  had  made,  labored  over, 
loved  and  liked — nothing  more — not  his  machine. 

The  stranger  forced  himself  lower  down  in  the 
saddle  and  yawned.  It  was  a  drowsy  afternoon, 
and  he  objected  to  travel  in  these  out-of-the-world 
parts.  He  liked  better  civilized  life,  where  at 
every  hour  of  the  day  a  man  may  look  for  his 
glass  of  wine,  and  his  easy-chair,  and  paper  ; 
where  at  night  he  may  lock  himself  into  his  room 
with  his  books  and  a  bottle  of  brandy,  and  taste 
joys  mental  and  physical.  The  world  said  of 
him — the  all-knowing,  omnipotent  world,  whom 
no  locks  can  bar,  who  has  the  cat-like  propensity 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  .  181 

of  seeing  best  in  the  dark — the  world  said,  that 
better  than  the  books  he  loved  the  brandy,  and 
better  than  books  or  brandy  that  which  it  had 
been  better  had  he  loved  less.  But  for  the  world 
he  cared  nothing ;  he  smiled  blandly  in  its  teeth. 
All  life  is  a  dream :  if  wine  and  philosophy  and 
women  keep  the  dream  from  becoming  a  night- 
mare, so  much  the  better.  It  is  all  they  are  fit 
for,  all  they  can  be  used  for.  There  was  another 
side  to  his  life  and  thought ;  but  of  that  the 
world  knew  nothing,  and  said  nothing,  as  the  way 
of  the  wise  world  is. 

The  stranger  looked  from  beneath  his  sleepy 
eyelids  at  the  brown  earth  that  stretched  away, 
beautiful  in  spite  of  itself  in  that  June  sunshine ; 
looked  at  the  graves,  the  gables  of  the  farm-house 
showing  over  the  stone  walls  of  the  camps,  at 
the  clownish  fellow  at  his  feet,  and  yawned.  But 
he  had  drunk  of  the  hind's  tea,  and  must  say 
something. 

"  Your  father's  place,  I  presume  ? "  he  inquired 
sleepily. 

"  No  ;  I  am  only  a  servant." 

"  Dutch  people  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  you  like  the  life  ?• 

The  boy  hesitated. 

"  On  days  like  these." 

"  And  why  on  these  ?  " 

The  boy  waited. 

"  They  are  very  beautiful." 

The  stranger  looked  at  him.  It  seemed  that 
as  the  fellow's  dark  eyes  looked  across  the  brown 


J 82  THE  STORY  OF 

earth  they  kindled  with  an  intense  satisfaction ; 
then  they  looked  back  at  the  carving. 

What  had  that  creature,  so  coarse-clad  .id 
clownish,  to  do  with  the  subtle  joys  of  the  weather  ? 
Himself,  white-handed  and  delicate,  he  might  hear 
the  music  which  shimmering  sunshine  and  soli- 
tude play  on  the  finely  strung  chords  of  nature ; 
but  that  fellow  !  Was  not  the  ear  in  that  great 
body  too  gross  for  such  delicate  mutterings  ? 

Presently  he  said : 

"  May  I  see  what. you  work  at  ?  " 

The  fellow  handed  his  wooden  post.  It  was 
by  no  means  lovely.  The  men  and  birds  were 
almost  grotesque  in  their  labored  resemblance  to 
nature,  and  bore  signs  of  patient  thought.  The 
stranger  turned  the  thing  over  on  his  knee. 

"  Where  did  you  learn  this  work  ?  "  - 

"  I  taught  myself." 

"  And  these  zigzag  lines  represent " 

"  A  mountain." 

The  stranger  looked. 

"  It  has  some  meaning,  has  it  not  ?  " 

The  boy  muttered  confusedly  : 

"  Only  things." 

The  questioner  looked  down  at  him — the  huge, 
unwieldly  figure,  in  size  a  man's,  in  right  of  its 
childlike  features  and  curling  hair  a  child's ■;  and 
it  hurt  him — it  attracted  him  and  it  hurt  him.  It 
was  something  between  pity  and  sympathy. 

"  How  long  have  you  worked  at  this  ?  " 

"  Nine  months." 

From  his  pocket  the  stranger  drew  his  pocket- 
book,  and  took   something  from   it.     He  could 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  183 

fasten  the  post  to  his  horse  in  some  way,  and 
*hrow  it  away  in  the  sand  when  at  a  safe  dis- 
tance. 

"  Will  you  take  this  for  your  carving  ? " 

The  boy  glanced  at  the  five-pound  note  and 
shook  his  head. 

"  No ;  I  cannot." 

"  You  think  it  is  worth  more  ? "  asked  the 
stranger  with  a  little  sneer. 

He  pointed  with  his  thumb  to  a  grave. 

"  No  ;,  it  is  for  him." 

"  And  who  is  there  ?  "  asked  the  stranger. 

"  My  father," 

The  man  silently  returned  the  note  to  his 
pocket-book,  and  gave  the  carving  to  the  boy ; 
and,  drawing  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  composed 
himself  to  sleep.  Not  being  able  to  do  so,  after 
a  while  he  glanced  over  the  fellow's  shoulder  to 
watch  him  work.  The  boy  carved  letters  into 
the  back. 

"  If,"  said  the  stranger,  with  his  melodious 
voice,  rich  with  a  sweetness  that  never  showed 
itself  in  the  clouded  eyes — for  sweetness  will 
linger  on  in  the  voice  long  after  it  has  died  out 
in  the  eyes — "  if  for  such  a  purpose,  why  write 
that  upon  it  ?  " 

The  boy  glanced  round  at  him,  but  made  no 
answer.     He  had  almost  forgotten  his  presence. 

"  You  surely  believe,"  said  the  stranger,  "  that 
some  day,  sooner  or  later,  these  graves  will  open, 
and  those  Boer-uncles  with  their  wives  walk 
about  here  in  the  red  sand,  with  the  very  fleshly 
legs  with  which  they  went'  to  sleep  ?     Then  why 


*84  THE  STORY  OF 

say,  ■  He  sleeps  forever'  ?      You  believe  he  will 
stand  up  again  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ?  "  asked  the  boy,  lifting  for  an  in- 
stant his  heavy  eyes  to  the  stranger's  face. 

Half  taken  aback,  the  stranger  laughed.  It 
was  as  though  a  curious  little  tadpole  which  he 
held  under  his  glass  should  suddenly  lift  its  tail 
and  begin  to  question  him. 

"  I  ? — no."  He  laughed  his  short  thick  laugh, 
"lama  man  who  believes  nothing,  hopes  noth- 
ing, fears  nothing,  feels  nothing.  I  am  beyond  the 
pale  of  humanity ;  no  criterion  of  what  you  should 
be  who  live  here  among  your  ostriches  and 
bushes." 

The  next  moment  the  stranger  was  surprised 
by  a  sudden  movement  on  the  part  of  the  fellow, 
which  brought  him  close  to  the  stranger's  feet. 
Soon  after,  he  raised  his  carving  and  laid  it 
across  the  man's  knee. 

"Yes,  I  will  tell  you,"  he  muttered:  "I  will 
tell  you  all  about  it." 

He  put  his  finger  on  the  grotesque  little  man- 
ikin at  the  bottom  (Ah  !  that  man  who  believed 
nothing,  hoped  nothing,  felt  nothing ;  how  he 
loved  him/),  and  with  eager  finger  the  fellow 
moved  upward,  explaining  over  fantastic  figures 
and  mountains,  to  the  crowning  bird  from  whose 
wing  dropped  a  feather.  At  the  end  he  spoke 
with  broken  breath — short  words,  like  one  who 
utters  things  of  mighty  import. 

The  stranger  watched  more  the  face  than  the 
carving ;  and  there  walls  now  and  then  a  show  of 
white  teeth  beneath  the  mustaches  as  he  listened. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM,  185 

"  I  think,"  he  said  blandly,  when  the  boy  had 
done,  "  that  I  partly  understand  you.  It  is  some- 
thing after  this  fashion,  is  it  not  ?  "  (He  smiled.) 
"  In  certain  valleys  there  was  a  hunter."  (He 
touched  the  grotesque  little  figure  at  the  bottom.) 
"  Day  by  day  he  went  to  hunt  for  wild-fowl  in  the 
woods;  and  it  chanced  that  once  he  stood  on  the 
shores  of  a  large  lake.  While  he  stood  waiting 
in  the  rushes  for  the  coming  of  the  birds,  a  great 
shadow  fell  on  him,  and  in  the  water  he  saw  a 
reflection.  He  looked  up  to  the  sky ;  but  the 
thing  was  gone.  Then  a  burning  desire  came 
over  him  to  see  once  again  that  reflection  in  the 
water,  and  all  day  he  watched  and  waited ;  but 
night  came,  and  it  had  not  returned.  Then  he 
went  home  with  his  empty  bag,  moody  and  silent. 
His  comrades  came  questioning  about  him  to 
know  the  reason,  but  he  answered  them  nothing ; 
he  sat  alone  and  brooded.  Then  his  friend  came 
to  him,  and  to  him  he  spoke. 

"  *  I  have  seen  to-day,'  he  said,  '  that  which  I 
never  saw  before — a  vast  white  bird,  with  silver 
wings  outstretched,  sailing  in  the  everlasting 
blue.  And  now  it  is  as  though  a  great  fire  burnt 
within  my  breast.  It  was  but  a  sheen,  a  shimmer, 
a  reflection  in  the  water ;  but  now  I  desire  noth- 
ing more  on  earth  than  to  hold  her." 

"  His  friend  laughed. 

"  *  It  was  but  a  beam  playing  on  the  water,  or 
the  shadow  of  your  own  head.  To-morrow  you 
will  forget  her,'  he  said. 

"  But  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow 
the  hunter  walked  alone.     He  sought  in  the  forest 


386  THE  STORY  OF 

and  in  the  woods,  by  the  lakes  and  among  the 
rushes,  but  he  could  not  find  her.  He  shot  no 
more  wild-fowl ;  what  were  they  to  him  ? 

"  '  What  ails  him  ? '  said  his  comrades. 

"  !  He  is  mad,'  said  one. 
-  "  '  No  ;   but  he  is  worse/    said  another  ;    '  he 
would  see  that  which  none  of  us  have  seen,  and 
make  himself  a  wonder.' 

"  \  Come,  let  us  forswear  his  company,'  said 
all. 

"  So  the  hunter  walked  alone. 

"  One  night,  as  he  wandered  in  the  shade,  very 
heart-sore  and  weeping,  an  old  man  stood  before 
him,  grander  and  taller  than  the  sons  of  men. 

"  '  Who  are  you  ? '  asked  the  hunter. 

"  '  I  am  Wisdom,'  answered  the  old  man ;  '  but 
some  men  called  me  Knowledge.  All  my  life  I 
have  grown  in  these  valleys  ;  but  no  man  sees  me 
till  he  has  sorrowed  much.  The  eyes  must  be 
washed  with  tears  that  are  to  behold  me;  and 
according  as  a  man  has  suffered,  I  speak." 

"  And  the  hunter  cried  : 

"  '  Oh,  you  who  have  lived  here  so  long,  tell  me, 
what  is  that  great  wild  bird  I  have  seen  sailing  in 
the  blue  ?  They  would  have  me  believe  she  is  a 
dream  ;  the  shadow  of  my  own  head.' 

"  The  old  man  smiled. 

"  '  Her  name  is  Truth.  He  who  has  once  seen 
her  never  rests  again.  Till  death  he  desires 
her.' 

"  And  the  hunter  cried : 

"'  Oh,  tell  me  where  I  may  find  herl* 

"  But  the  man  said  ; 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  187 

,l  *  You  have  not  suffered  enough,'  and  went. 

"Then  the  hunter  took  from  his  breast  the  shut- 
tle of  Imagination,  and  wound  on  it  the  thread  of 
his  Wishes  ;  and  all  night  he  sat  and  wove  a  net. 

"  In  the  morning  he  spread  the  golden  net  open 
on  the  ground,  and  into  it  he  threw  a  few  grains  of 
credulity,  which  his  father  had  left  him,  and  which 
he  kept  in  his  breast-pocket.  They  were  like  white 
puff-balls,  and  when  you  trod  on  them  a  brown 
dust  flew  out.  Then  he  sat  by  to  see  what  would 
happen.  The  first  that  came  into  the  net  was  a 
snow-white  bird,  with  dove's  eyes,  and  he  sang  a 
beautiful  song — '  A  human-God  !  a  human-God  ! 
a  human-God  ! '  it  sang.  The  second  that  came 
was  black  and  mystical,  with  dark,  lovely  eyes 
that  looked  into  the  depths  of  your  soul,  and  he 
sang  only  this — *  Immortality  ! ' 

"  And  the  hunter  took  them  both  in  his  arms, 
for  he  said  : 

lt '  They  are  surely  of  the  beautiful  family  of 
Truth.' 

"  Then  came  another,  green  and  gold,  who  sang 
in  a  shrill  voice,  like  one  crying  in  the  market- 
place,— '  Reward  after  Death  !  Reward  after 
Death !  * 

"  And  he  said  : 

"  '  You  are  not  so  fair  ;  but  you  are  fair  too,' 
and  he  took  it. 

"  And  others  came,  brightly  colored,  singing 
pleasant  songs,  till  all  the  grains  were  finished. 
And  the  hunter  gathered  all  his  birds  together, 
and  built  a  strong  iron  cage  called  a  new  creed, 
and  put  all  his  birds  in  it. 


l88  THE  STORY  OF 

"  Then  the  people  came  about  dancing  and 

singing. 

"  '  Oh,  happy  hunter  ! '  they  cried.  '  Oh, 
wonderful  man  !  Oh,  delightful  birds  !  Oh 
lovely  songs  ! ' 

"  No  one  asked  where  the  birds  had  come  from, 
nor  how  they  had  been  caught ;  but  they  danced 
and  sang  before  them.  And  the  hunter,  too,  was 
glad,  for  he  said  : 

"  l  Surely  Truth  is  among  them.  In  time  she 
will  moult  her  feathers,  and  I  shall  see  her  snow- 
white  form.' 

"  But  the  time  passed,  and  the  people  sang  and 
danced  ;  but  the  hunter's  heart  grew  heavy.  He 
crept  alone,  as  of  old,  to  weep ;  the  terrible  desire 
had  awakened  again  in  his  breast.  One  day,  as 
he  sat  alone  weeping,  it  chanced  that  Wisdom 
met  him.  He  told  the  old  man  what  he  had 
done. 

"  And  Wisdom  smiled  sadly. 

"  '  Many  men,'  he  said,  '  have  spread  that  net 
for  Truth  ;  but  they  have  never  found  her.  On 
the  grains  of  credulity  she  will  not  feed  ;  in  the  net 
of  wishes  her  feet  cannot  be  held ;  in  the  air  of 
these  valleys  she  will  not  breathe.  The  birds 
you  have  caught  are  of  the  brood  of  Lies.  Lovely 
and,  beautiful,  but  still  lies  ;  Truth  knows  them 
not.' 

"  And  the  hunter  cried  out  in  bitterness : 

" '  And  must  I  then  sit  still,  to  be  devoured  of 
this  great  burning  ? ' 

"  And  the  old  man  said  : 

"  *  Listen,  and  in  that  you  have  suffered  much 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  189 

and  wept  much,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  know.  He 
who  sets  out  to  search  for  Truth  must  leave  these 
valleys  of  superstition  forever,  taking  with  him 
not  one  shred  that  has  belonged  to  them.  Alone 
he  must  wander  down  into  the  Land  of  Absolute 
Negation  and  Denial ;  he  must  abide  there  ;  he 
must  resist  temptation  ;  when  the  light  breaks  he 
must  arise  and  follow  it  into  the  country  of 
dry  sunshine.  The  mountains  of  stern  reality 
will  rise  before  him  ;  he  must  climb  them  ;  beyond 
them  lies  Truth.' 

"  '  And  he  will  hold  her  fast !  he  will  hold  her 
in  his  hands  ! '  the  hunter  cried. 
.  "  Wisdom  shook  his  head. 

"  '  He.  will  never  see  her,  never  hold  her.  The 
time  is  not  yet.' 

"  '  Then  there  is  no  hope  ? '  cried  the  hunter. 

"  '  There  is  this,'  said  Wisdom.  '  Some  men 
have  climbed  on  those  mountains  ;  circle  above 
circle  of  bare  rock  they  have  scaled  ;  and,  wander- 
ing there,  in  those  high  regions,  some  have  chanced 
to  pick  up  on  the  ground,  one  white,  silver  feather 
dropped  from  the  wing  of  Truth.  And  it  shall 
come  to  pass,'  said  the  old  man,  raising  himself 
prophetically  and  pointing  with  his  finger  to  the 
sky,  '  it  shall  come  to  pass,  that,  when  enough  of 
those  silver  feathers  shall  have  been  gathered  by 
the  hands  of  men,  and  shall  have  been  woven  in- 
to a  cord,  and  the  cord  into  a  net,  that  in  that  net 
Truth  may  be  captured.  Nothing  but  Truth  can 
hold  Truth.'' 

"  The  hunter  arose.    '  I  will  go/  he  said. 

M  But  Wisdom  detained  him. 


190  THE  STOR  S  OF 

"'Mark  you  well — who  leaves  these  valleys 
neper  returns  to  them.  Though  he  should  weep 
tears  of  blood  seven  days  and  nights  upon  the 
confines,  he  can  never  put  his  foot  across  them. 
Left — they  are  left  forever.  Upon  the  road 
which  you  would  travel  there  is  no  reward  offered. 
Who  goes,  goes  freely — for  the  great  love  that  is 
in  him.     The  work  is  his  reward.' 

"  *  I  go,'  said  the  hunter  ;  .'  but  upon  the  mount- 
ains, tell  me,  which  path  shall  I  take  ? ' 

"'lam  the  child  of  The-Accumulated-Knowl- 
edge-of-Ages,'  said  the  man ;  '  I  can  walk  only 
where  many  men  have  trodden.  On  those  mount- 
ains few  men  have  passed ;  each  man  strikes 
out  a  path  for  himself.  He  goes  at  his  own -peril ; 
my  voice  he  hears  no  more.  "I  may  follow  after 
him,  but  T  cannot  go  before  him.' 

"Then  Knowledge  vanished. 

"  And  the  hunter  turned  He  went  to  his  cage, 
and  with  his  hands  broke  down  the  bars,  and  the 
jagged  iron  tore  his  flesh.  It  is  sometimes  easier 
to  build  than  to  break. 

"One  by  one  he  took  his  plumed  birds  and  let 
them  fly.  But,  when  he  came  to  his  dark-plumed 
bird,  he  held  it,  and  looked  into  its  beautiful  eyes, 
and  the  bird  uttered  its  low  deep  cry — '  Immor- 
tality ! ' 

"  And  he  said  quickly,  '  I  cannot  part  with  it. 
It  is  not  heavy;  it  eats  no  food.  I  will  hide  it 
in  my  breast,  I  will  take  it  with  me.'  And  he 
buried  it  there,  and  covered  it  over  with  his  cloak. 

"  But  the  thing  he  had  hidden  grew  heavier, 
heayierj  heavier — till  it  lay  on  his  breast  like  lead. 


AN  A  FRICA  N  FA  RM.  1 9 1 

He  could  not  move  with  it.  He  could  not  leave 
those  valleys  with  it.  Then  again  he  took  it  out 
and  looked  at  it. 

"  '  Ohr  my  beautiful,  my  heart's  own  ! '  he  cried, 
'  may  I  not  keep  you  ? ' 

"  He  opened  his  hands  sadly. 

" '  Go,'  he  said.  '  It  may  happen  that  in 
Truth's  song  one  note  is  like  to  yours ;  but  / 
shall  never  hear  it.' 

"  Sadly  he  opened  his  hand,  and  the  bird  flew 
from  him  forever. 

"  Then  from  the  shuttle  of  Imagination  he  took 
the  thread  of  his  wishes,  and  threw  it  on  the 
ground ;  and  the  empty  shuttle  he  put  into  his 
breast,  for  the  thread  was  made  in  those  valleys, 
but  the  shuttle  came  from  an  unknown  country. 
He  turned  to  go,  but  now  the  people  came  about 
him,  howling : 

"  '  Fool,  hound,  demented  lunatic  ! '  they  cried. 
'  How  dared  you  break  your  cage  and  let  the 
birds  fly?' 

"  The  hunter  spoke ;  but  they  would  not  hear 
him. 

"  '  Truth  !  who  is  she  ?  Can  you  eat  her  ?  can 
you  drink  her  ?  Who  has  ever  seen  her  ?  Your 
birds  were  real :  all  could  hear  them  sing  !  Oh, 
fool !  vile  reptile  !  atheist ! '  they  cried,  '  you 
pollute  the  air.' 

"  '  Come,  let  us  take  up  stones  and  stone  him,' 
cried  some. 

"  '  What  affair  is  it  of  ours  ? '  said  others.  '  Let 
the  idiot  go,'  and  went  away.  But  the  rest 
gathered  up  stones  and  mud  and  threw  at  him. 


192  THE  STORY  OF 

At  last,  when  he  was  bruised  and  cut,  the  hunter 
crept  away  into  the  woods.  And  it  was  evening 
about  him." 

At  every  word  the  stranger  spoke  the  fellow's 
eyes  flashed  back  on  him — yes,  and  yes,  and 
yes  !  The  stranger  smiled.  It  was  almost  worth 
the  trouble  of  exerting  one's  self,  even  on  a  lazy 
afternoon,  to  win  those  passionate  flashes,  more 
thirsty  and  desiring  than  the  love-glances  of  a 
woman. 

"  He  wandered  on  and  on,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  and  the  shade  grew  deeper.  He  was  on  the 
borders  now  of  the  land  where  it  is  always  night. 
Then  he  stepped  into  it,  and  there  was  no  light 
there.  With  his  hands  he  groped ;  but  each 
branch  as  he  touched  it  broke  off,  and  the  earth 
was  covered  with  cinders.  At  every  step  his  foot 
sank  in,  and  a  fine  cloud  of  impalpable  ashes 
flew  up  into  his  face;  and  it  was  dark.  So  he 
sat  down  upon  a  stone  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands,  to  wait  in  that  Land  of  Negation  and 
Denial  till  the  light  came. 

"  And  it  was  night  in  his  heart  also. 

"Then  from  the  marshes  to  his  right  and  left 
cold  mists  arose  and  closed  about  him.  A  fine, 
imperceptible  rain  fell  in  the  dark,  and  great 
drops  gathered  on  his  hair  and  clothes.  His 
heart  beat  slowly,  and  a  numbness  crept  through 
all  his  limbs.  Then,  looking  up,  two  merry  wisp 
lights  came  dancing.  He  lifted  his  head  to  look 
at  them.  Nearer,  nearer  they  came.  So  warm, 
so  bright,  they  danced  like  stars  of  fire.  They 
stood  before  him  at  last.     From  the  center  of  the 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  193 

radiating  flame  in  one  looked  out  a  woman's  face, 
laughing,  dimpled,  with  streaming  yellow  hair. 
In  the  center  of  the  other  were  merry  laughing 
ripples,  like  the  bubbles  on  a  glass  of  wine.  I  hey 
danced  before  him. 

«  «  Who  are  you,'  asked  the  hunter,  who  aione 
come  to  me  in  my  solitude  and  darkness  V 

'"We  are  the  twins  Sensuality,'  they  cried. 
*  Our  father's  name  is  Human-Nature,  and  our 
mother's  name  is  Excess.  We  are  as  old  as  the 
hills  and  rivers,  as  old  as  the  first  man  ;  but  we 
never  die,'  they  laughed.  f      . 

"  *  Oh,  let  me  wrap  my  arms  about  you  !  cried 
the  first ;  '  they  are  soft  and  warm.  Your  heart 
is  frozen  now,  but  I  will  make  it  beat.  Oh,  come 
to  me ! '  .  /  ,      ;-,  j, 

"  1 1  will  pour  my  hot  life  into  you,  said  the 
second  :  '  your  brain  is  numb,  and  your  limbs  are 
dead  now ;  but  they  shall  live  with  a  fierce,  free 
life.     Oh,  let  me  pour  it  in  ! ' 

"  <  Oh,  follow  us,'  they  cried,  « and  live  with  us. 
Nobler  hearts  than  yours  have  sat  here  in  this  dark- 
ness to  wait,  and  they  have  come  to  us  and  we 
to  them  ;  and  they  have  never  left  us,  never.  All 
else  is  a  delusion,  but  we  are  real,  we  are  real. 
Truth  is  a  shadow :  the  valleys  of  superstition  are 
a  farce ;  the  earth  is  of  ashes,  the  trees  all  rotten ; 
but  we— feel  us— we  live  !  You  cannot  doubt  us. 
Feel  us,  how  warm  we  are  !  Oh,  come  to  us! 
Come  with  us  ! '  , 

"  Nearer  and  nearer  round  his  head  they  hov- 
ered, and  the  cold  drops  melted  on  his  forehead. 
The  bright  light  shot  into  his  eyes,  dazzling  him, 
1% 


*94  THE  STORY  OF 

and  the  frozen  blood  began  to  run.  And  he 
said  : 

"  *  Yes ;  why  should  I  die  here  in  this  awful 
darkness  ?  They  are  warm,  they  melt  my  frozen 
blood  ! '  and  he  stretched  out  his  hands  to  take 
them. 

"  Then  in  a  moment  there  arose  before  him  the 
image  of  the  thing  he  had  loved,  and  his  hand 
dropped  to  his  side. 

"  '  Oh,  come  to  us  ! '  they  cried. 

"  But  he  buried  his  face. 

"  '  You  dazzle  my  eyes,'  he  cried,  '  you  make 
my  heart  warm  ;  but  you  cannot  give  me  what  I 
desire.     I  will  wait  here — wait  till  I  die.     Go  ! ' 

"  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  would 
not  listen ;  and  when  he  looked  up  again  they 
were  two  twinkling  stars,  that  vanished  in  the 
distance. 

"  And  the  long,  long  night  rolled  on. 

"  All  who  leave  the  valley  of  superstition  pass 
through  that  dark  land  ;  but  some  go  through  it 
in  a  few  days,  some  linger  there  for  months,  some 
for  years,  and  some  die  there." 

The  boy  had  crept  closer ;  his  hot  breath  almost 
touched  the  stranger's  hand;  a  mystic  wonder 
filled  his  eyes. 

"  At  last  for  the  hunter  a  faint  light  played 
along  the  horizon,  and  he  rose  to  follow  it ;  and 
he  reached  that  light  at  last,  and  stepped  into  the 
broad  sunshine.  Then  before  him  rose  the 
almighty  mountains  of  Dry-facts  and  Realities. 
The  clear  sunshine  played  on  them,  and  the  tops 
were  lost  in  the  clouds.     At  the  foot  many  paths 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  195 

ran  up.  An  exultant  cry  burst  from  the  hunter. 
He  chose  the  straightest  and  began  to  climb, 
and  the  rocks  and  ridges  resounded  with  his  song. 
They  had  exaggerated ;  after  all,  it  was  not  so 
high,  nor  was  the  road  so  steep  !  A  few  days,  a 
few  weeks,  a  few  months  at  most,  and  then  the 
top  !  Not  one  feather  only  would  he  pick  up  ;  he 
would  gather  all  that  other  men  had  found — weave 
the  net — capture  Truth — hold  her  fast — touch  her 
with  his  hands — clasp  her  ! 

"  He  laughed  in  the  merry  sunshine,  and  sang 
loud.  Victory  was  very  near.  Nevertheless, 
after  a  while  the  path  grew  steeper.  He  needed 
all  his  breath  for  climbing,  and  the  singing  died 
away.  On  the  right  and  left  rose  huge  rocks  de- 
void of  lichen  or  moss,  and  in  the  lava-like  earth 
chasms  yawned.  Here  and  there  he  saw  a  sheen 
of  white  bones.  Now,  too,  the  path  began  to  grow 
less  and  less  marked ;  then  it  became  a  mere  trace, 
with  a  footmark  here  and  there ;  then  it  ceased 
altogether.  He  sang  no  more,  but  struck  forth  a 
path  for  himself  until  he  reached  a  mighty  wall  of 
rock,  smooth  and  without  break,  stretching  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  see.  '  I  will  rear  a  stair  against 
it ;  and,  once  this  wall  climbed,  I  shall  be  almost 
there,'  he  said  bravely ;  arid  worked.  With  his 
shuttle  of  imagination  he  dug  out  stones  ;  but 
half  of  them  would  not  fit,  and  half  a  month's 
work  would  roll  down  because  those  below  were  ill 
chosen.  But  the  hunter  worked  on,  saying  always 
to  himself,  '  Once  this  wall  climbed,  I  shall  be 
almost  there.     This  great  work  ended  ! ' 

"  At  last  he  came  out  upon  the  top,   and  he 


196  THE  STORY  OF     . 

looked  about  him.  Far  below  rolled  the  white 
mist  over  the  valleys  of  superstition,  and  above 
him  towered  the  mountains.  They  had  seemed 
low  before ;  they  were  of  an  immeasurable  height 
now,  from  crown  to  foundation  surrounded  by 
walls  of  rock,  that  rose  tier  above  tier  in  mighty 
circles.  Upon  them  played  the  eternal  sunshine. 
He  uttered  a  wild  cry.  He  bowed  himself  on  tc* 
the  earth,  and  when  he  rose  his  face  was  white. 
In  absolute  silence  he  walked  on.  He  was  very 
silent  now.  In  those  high  regions  the  rarefied 
air  is  hard  to  breathe  by  those  born  in  the  valleys ; 
every  breath  he  drew  hurt  him,  and  the  blood 
oozed  out  from  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  Before  the. 
next  wall  of  reck  he  began  to  work.  The  height 
of  this  seemed  infinite,  and  he  said  nothing.  The 
sound  of  his  tool  rang  night  and  day  upon  the 
iron  rocks  into  which  he  cut  steps.  Years  passed 
over  him,  yet  he  worked  on  ;  but  the  wall  towered 
up  always  above  him  to  heaven.  Sometimes  he 
prayed  that  a  little  moss  or  lichen  might  spring 
up  on  those  bare  walls  to  be  a  companion  to  him  ; 
but  it  never  came."  The  stranger  watched  the 
boy's  face. 

"  And  the  years  rolled  on :  he  counted  them 
by  the  steps  he  had  cut — a  few  for  a  year — only 
a  few.  He  sang  no  more  ;  he  said  no  more, '  I  will 
do  this  or  that ' — he  only  worked.  And  at  night, 
when  the  twilight  settled  down,  there  looked  out 
at  him  from  the  holes  and  crevices  in  the  rocks 
strange  wild  faces. 

"  '  Stop  your  work,  you  lonely  man,  and  speak 
to  us,'  they  cried. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  197 

« <  My  salvation  is  in  work.  If  I  should  stop 
but  for  one  moment  you  would  creep  down  upon 
me,'  he  replied.  And  they  put  out  their  long 
necks  further.  \  , 

"  <  Look  down  into  the  crevice  at  your  leet, 
they  said.  '  See  what  lie  there— white  bones  ! 
As  brave  and  strong  a  man  as  you  climbed  to 
these  rocks.  And  he  looked  up.  He  saw  there 
was  no  use  in  striving ;  he  would  never  hold  Truth, 
never  see  her,  never  find  her.  So  he  lay  down 
here,  for  he  was  very  tired.  He  went  to  sleep  for- 
ever. He  put  himself  to  sleep.  Sleep  is  very 
tranquil.  You  are  not  lonely  when  you  are  asleep, 
neither  do  your  hands  ache,  nor  your  heart.'  And 
the  hunter  laughed  between  his  teeth. 

"  '  Have  I  torn  from  my  heart  all  that  was  dear- 
est ;  have  I  wandered  alone  in  the  land  of  night; 
have  I  resisted  temptation ;  have  I  dwelt  where 
the  voice  of  my  kind  is  never  heard,  and  labored 
alone,  to  lie  down  and  be  food  for  you,  ye  harpies  ? 

"  He  laughed  fiercely ;  and  the  Echoes  of  De- 
spair slunk  away,  for  the  laugh  of  a  brave,  strong 
heart  is  as  a  death-blow  to  them. 

"  Nevertheless  they  crept  out  again  and  looked 

"  '  Do  you  know  that  your  hair  is  white  ?  _  they 
said,  '  that  your  hands  begin  to  tremble  like  a 
child's  ?  Do  you  see  that  the  point  of  your  shuttle 
is  gone  ?— it  is  cracked  already.  If  you  should 
ever  climb  this  stair,'  they  said,  '  it  will  be  your 
last.     You  will  never  climb  another.' 

"  And  he  answered,  'I know  it!'  and  worked 
on. 


198  THE  STORY  OF 

"  The  old,  thin  hands  cut  the  stones  ill  and  jag- 
gedly,  for  the  fingers  were  stiff  and  bent.  The 
beauty  and  the  strength  of  the  man  was  gone. 

"  At  last,  an  old,  wizened,  shrunken  face  looked 
out  above  the  rocks.  It  saw  the  eternal  mount- 
ains rise  with  walls  to  the  white  clouds  ;  but  its 
work  was  done. 

"  The  old  hunter  folded  his  tired  hands  and  lay 
down  -by  the  precipice  where  he  had  worked  away 
his  life.  It  was  the  sleeping  time  at  last.  Below 
him,  over  the  valleys  rolled  the  thick  white  mist. 
Once  it  broke  ;  and  through  the  gap  the  dying 
eyes  looked  down  on  the  trees  and  fields  of  their 
childhood.  From  afar  seemed  borne  to  him  the 
cry  of  his  own  wild  birds,  and  he  heard  the  noise 
of  people  singing  as  they  danced.  And  he  thought 
he  heard  among  them  the  voices  of  his  old  com- 
rades ;  and  he  saw  far  off  the  sunlight  shine  on 
his  early  home.  And  great  tears  gathered  in  the 
hunter's  eyes. 

"  *  Ah  !  they  who  die  there  do-  not  die  alone,' 
he  cried. 

"  Then  the  mists  rolled  together  again  ;  and  he 
turned  his  eyes  away. 

"'I  have  sought,'  he  said,  'for  long  years  I 
have  labored  :  but  I  have  not  found  her.  I  have 
not  rested,  I  have  not  repined,  and  I  have  not 
seen  her ;  now  my  strength  is  gone.  Where  I  lie 
down  worn  out  other  men  will  stand,  young  and 
fresh.  By  the  steps  that  I  have  cut  they  will 
climb ;  by  the  stairs  that  I  have  built  they  will 
mount.  They  will  never  know  the  name  of  the 
man  who  made  them.   At  the  clumsy  work  they  will 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  199 


laueh-  when  the  stones  roll  they  will  curse  me. 
But  they  will  mount,  and  on  my  work ;  they  will 
cUmb  and  by  my  stair  !  They  will  find  her  and 
through  me!  And  no  man  liveth  to  himself,  and 
no  man  dieth  to  himself.'  .         , 

"The  tears  rolled  from  beneath  the  shriveled 
evelids.  If  Truth  had  appeared  above  him  in 
the  clouds  now  he  could  not  have  seen  her,  the 
mist  of  death  was  in  his  eyes.  . 

«<  My  soul  hears  their  glad  step  coming,' he 
said  •  'and  they  shall  mount !  they  shall  mount ! 
He  raised  his  shriveled  hand  to  his  eyes. 

"Then  slowlyfromthe  white  sky  above  through 
the  still  air,  came  something  falling,  falling,  fa  li- 
ng     Softly  it  fluttered  down,  and  dropped  on  to 
ht  breast  "of  the  dying  man      He  felt  it  with  his 
hands.     It  was  a  feather.     He  died  holding  it. 

The  boy  had  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand 
On  the  wood  of  the  carving  great  drops  fell.      1  he 
stranger  must  have  laughed  at  him,  or  remained 
silent.     He  did  so.         •  '••.'.  .  , 

"How  did  you  know  it?"  the  boy  whispered 
at  last.  "  It  is  not  written  there— not  on  that 
wood.     How  did  you  know  it  ? "  .  . 

"Certainly,"  said  the  stranger,,  "the  whole  of 
the  story  is  not  written  here,  but  it  is  suggested 
And  the" attribute  of  all  true  art,  the  high :  t .and 
the  lowest,  is  this— that  it  says  more  than  it  says, 
and  tales  you  away  from  itself.  It  is  a  little  door 
that  opens"  into  an  infinite  hall  where  you  may 
find  what  you  please.  Men,  thinking  to  detract 
sav  'People  read  more  in  this  or  that  work  of 
genius  than  was  ever  written  in  it,'  not  perceiving 


2oo  THE  STORY  OF 

that  they  pay  the  highest  compliment.  If  we 
pick  up  the  finger  and  nail  of  a  real  man,  we  can 
decipher  a  whole  story — could  almost  reconstruct 
the  creature  again,  from  head  to  foot.  But  half 
the  body  of  a  Mumboo-jumbow  idol  leaves  us 
utterly  in  the  dark  as  to  what  the  rest  was  like. 
We  see  what  we  see,  but  nothing  more.  There 
is  nothing  so  universally  intelligible  as  truth.  It 
has  a  thousand  meanings,  and  suggests  a  thousand 
more."  He  turned  over  the  wooden  thing. 
"  Though  a  man  should  carve  it  into  matter  with 
the  least  possible  manipulative  skill,  it  will  yet 
find  interpreters.  It  is  the  soul  that  looks  out 
with  burning  eyes  through  the  most  gross  fleshly 
filament.  Whosoever  should  portray  truly  the 
life  and  death  of  a  little  flower — its  birth,  suck- 
ing in  of  nourishment,  reproduction  of  its  kind, 
withering  and  vanishing — would  have  shaped  a 
'symbol  of  all  existence.  All  true  facts  of  nature 
or  the  mind  are  related.  Your  little  carving  rep- 
resents some  mental  facts  as  they  really  are, 
therefore  fifty  different  true  stories  might  be  read 
from  it.  What  your  work  wants  is  not  truth,  but 
beauty  of  external  form,  the  other  half  of  art." 

He  leaned  almost  gently  toward  the  boy. 
"  Skill  may  come  in  time,  but  you  will  have  to 
work  hard.  The  love  of  beauty  and  the  desire 
for  it  must  be  born  in  a  man ;  the  skill  to  repro- 
duce it  he  must  make.     He  must  work  hard." 

"  All  my  life  I  have  longed  to  see  you,"  the  boy 
said. 

The  stranger  broke  off  the  end  of  his  cigar,  and 
lit  it.     The  boy  lifted  the  heavy  wood  from  the 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  201 

stranger's  knee  and  drew  yet  nearer  him.  In 
the  dog-like  manner  of  his  drawing  near  there 
was  something  superably  ridiculous,  unless  one 
chanced  to  view  it  in  another  light.  Presently  the 
stranger  said,  whiffing,  "  Do  something  for  me  ?  " 

The  boy  started  up. 

"  No  ;  stay  where  you  are.  I  don't  want  you 
to  go  anywhere  ;  I  want  you  to  talk  to  me.  Tell 
me  what  you  have  been  doing  all  your  life." 

The  boy  slunk  down  again.  Would  that  the 
man  had  asked  him  to  root  up  bushes  with  his 
hands  for  his  horse  to  feed  on  ;  or  to  run  to  the 
far  end  of  the  plain  for  the  fossils  that  lay  there  ; 
or  to  gather  the  flowers  that  grew  on  the  hills  at 
the  edge  of  the  plain ;  he  would  have  run  and 
been  back  quickly — but  now  !  " 

"  I  have  never  done  anything,"  he  said. 

"  Then  tell  me  of  that  nothing.  I  like  to  know 
what  other  folks  have  been  doing  whose  word  I 
can  believe.  It  is  interesting.  What  was  the 
first  thing  you  ever  wanted  very  much  ? " 

The  boy  waited  to  remember,  then  began  hesi- 
tatingly ;  but  soon  the  words  flowed.  In  the 
smallest  past  we  find  an  inexhaustible  mine  when 
once  we  begin  to  dig  at  it. 

A  confused,  disordered  story — the  little  made 
large  and  the  large  small,  and  nothing  showing 
its  inward  meaning.  It  is  not  till  the  past  has 
receded  many  steps  that  before  the  clearest  eyes 
it  falls  into  co-ordinate  pictures.  It  is  not  till  the 
I  we  tell  of  has  ceased  to  exist  that  it  takes  its 
place  among  other  objective  realities,  and  finds 
its  true  niche  in  the  picture.     The  present  and 


2o2  THE  STORY  OF 

the  near  past  is  a  confusion,  whose  meaning  flashes 
on  us  as  it  slinks  away  into  the  distance. 

The  stranger  lit  one  cigar  from  the  end  of 
another,  and  purled  and  listened  with  half-closed 
eyes. 

"  I  will  remember  more  to  tell  you  if  you  like," 
said  the  fellow. 

He  spoke  with  that  extreme  gravity  common 
to  all  very  young  things  who  feel  deeply.  .  It  is 
not  till  twenty  that  we  learn  to  be  in  deadly  ear- 
nest and  to  laugh.  The  stranger  nodded,  while 
the  fellow  sought  for  something  more  to  relate. 
He  would  tell  all  to  this  man  of  his — all  that  he 
knew,  all  that  he  had  felt,  his  most  inmost,  sorest 
thought.    Suddenly  the  stranger  turned  upon  him. 

"  Boy,"  he  said,  "  you  are  happy  to  be  here." 

Waldo  looked  at  him.     Was  his  delightful  one 
ridiculing  him  ?     Here,  with  this  brown  earth  and 
these  low  hills,  while  the  rare  wonderful  world 
lay  all  beyond.     Fortunate  to  be  here  ! 
,        The  stranger  read  his  glance. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  ;  "  here  with  the  karroo-bushes 
and  red  sand.  Do  you  wonder  what  I  mean  ? 
To  all  who  have  been  born  in  the  old  faith  there 
comes  a  time  of  danger,  when  the  old  slips  from 
us,  and  we  have  not  yet  planted  our  feet  on  the 
new.  We  hear  the  voice  from  Sinai  thundering 
no  more,  and  the  still  small  voice  of  reason  is  not 
yet  heard.  We  have  proved  the  religion  our 
mothers  fed  us  on  to  be  a  delusion  ;  in  our  bewilder- 
ment we  see  no  rule  by  which  to  guide  our  steps 
Lday  by  day ;  and  yet  every  day  we  must  step 
somewhere."     The  stranger  leaned  forward  and 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  203 

spoke  more  quickly.     "  We  have  never  once  beerT~7 
taught  by  word   or  act  to    distinguish  between  / 
religion  and  the  moral  laws  on  which  it  has  artfully  / 
fastened  itself,  and  from  which  it  has  sucked  its 
vitality.     When  we  have  dragged  down  the  weeds 
and  creepers  that  covered  the  solid  wall  and  have 
found  them  to  be   rotten  wood,  we   imagine  the 
wall  to  be  rotten  wood  too.     Wre  find  it  is  solid 
and  standing  only  when  we  fall  headlong  against 
it.     We  have  been  taught  that  all  right  and  wrong 
originate  in  the  will  of  an  irresponsible  being.     It 
is  some  time  before  we  see  how  the  inexorable 
'Thou  shalt  and  shalt  not'  are  carved  into  the 
nature  of  things.     This  in  the  time  of  danger." 

His  dark,  misty  eyes  looked  into  the  boy's. 

"  In  the  end  experience  will  inevitably  teach  us 
that  the  laws  for  a  wise  and  noble  life  have  a 
foundation  infinitely  deeper  than  the  fiat  of  any 
being,  God  or  man,  even  in  the  groundwork  of 
human  nature.  She  will  teach  us  that  whoso 
sheddeth  man's  blood,  though  by  man  his  blood 
be  not  shed,  though  no  man  avenge  and  no  hell 
await,  yet  every  drop  shall  blister  on  his  soul  and 
eat  in  the  name  of  the  dead.  She  will  teach  that 
whoso  takes  a  love  not  lawfully  his  own,  gathers  a 
flower  with  a  poison  on  its  petals  ;  that  whoso 
revenges,  strikes  with  a  sword  that  has  two  edges 
■ — one  for  his  adversary,  one  for  himself ;  that  who 
lives  to  himself  is  dead,  though  the  ground  is  not 
yet  on  him ;  that  who  wrongs  another  clouds  his 
own  sun ;  and  that  who  sins  in  secret  stands 
accused  and  condemned  before  the  one  Judge  who 
deals  eternal  justice — his  own  all-knowing  self. 


204  THE  STORY  OF 

"  Experience  will  teach  us  this,  and  reason  will 
show  us  why  it  must  be  so  ;  but  at  first  the  world 
swings  before  our  eyes,  and  no  voice  cries  out, 
'  This  is  the  way,  walk  ye  in  it !  '  You  are  happy 
to  be  here,  boy !  When  the  suspense  fills  you 
wtth  pain  you  build  stone  walls  and  dig  earth  for 
relief.  Others  have  stood  where  you  stand  to- 
day, and  have  felt  as  you  feel ;  and  another  relief 
has  been  offered  them,  and  they  have  taken  it. 

"  When  the  day  has  come  when  they  have  seen 
the  path  in  which  they  might  walk,  they  have  not 
the  strength  to  follow  it.  Habits  have  fastened 
on  them  from  which  nothing  but  death  can  free 
them ;  which  cling  closer  than  his  sacerdotal 
sanctimony  to  a  priest ;  which  feed  on  the  intellect 
like  a  worm  sapping  energy,  hope,  creative  power, 
all  that  makes  a  man  higher  than  a  beast — leaving 
only  the  power  to  yearn,  to  regret,  and  to  sink 
lower  in  the  abyss. 
/*  "  Boy,"  he  said,  and  the  listener  was  not  more 
unsmiling  now  than  the  speaker,  "  you  are  happy 
to  be  here !  Stay  where  you  are.  If  you  ever 
pray,  let  it  be  only  the  one  old  prayer — '  Lead  us 
not  into  temptation.'  Live  on  here  quietly.  The 
time  may  yet  come  when  you  will  be  that  which 
other  men  have  hoped  to  be  and  never  will  be 
now." 

— "The  stranger  rose,  shook  the  dust  from  his 
sleeve,  and  ashamed  at  his  own  earnestness, 
looked  across  the  bushes  for  his  horse. 

"  We  should  have  been  on  our  way  already," 
he  said.  "  We  shall  have  a  long  ride  in  the  dark 
to-night." 


AN  A  FRICA  N  FA  RM.  205 

Waldo  hastened  to  fetch  the  animal ;  but  he 
returned  leading  it  slowly.  The  sooner  it  came 
the  sooner  would  its  rider  be  gone. 

The  stranger  was  opening  his  saddle-bag,  in 
which  were  a  bright  French  novel  and  an  old 
brown  volume.  He  took  the  last  and  held  it  out 
to  the  boy. 

"  It  may  be  of  some  help  to  you,"  he  said,  care- 
lessly, "  it  was  a  gospel  to  me  when  I  first  fell  on 
it.  You  must  not  expect  too  much  ;  but  it  may 
give  you  a  center  round  which  to  hang  your  ideas, 
instead  of  letting  them  lie  about  in  a  confusion 
that  makes  the  head  ache.  We  of  this  generation 
are  not  destined  to  eat  and  be  satisfied  as  our 
fathers  were  ;  we  must  be  content  to  go  hungry." 

He  smiled  his  automaton  smile,  and  rebuttoned 
the  bag.  Waldo  thrust  the  book  into  his  breast, 
and  while  he  saddled  the  horse  the  stranger  made 
inquiries  as  to  the  nature  of  the  road  and  the  dis- 
tance to  the  next  farm. 

When  the  bags  were  fixed  Waldo  took  up  his 
wooden  post  and  began  to  fasten  it  on  to  the 
saddle,  tying  it  with  the  little  blue  cotton  hand- 
kerchief from  his  neck.  The  stranger  looked  on 
in  silence.  When  it  was  done  the  boy  held  the 
stirrup  for  him  to  mount. 

"  What  is  your  name  ? "  he  inquired,  ungloving 
his  right  hand,  when  he  was  in  the  saddle. 

The  boy  replied. 

"  Well,  I  trust  we  shall  meet  again  some  day, 
sooner  or  later." 

He  shook  hands  with  the  ungloved  hand ;  then 
drew  on   the  glove,   and    touched    his    horse, 


2o6  THE  STORY  OF 

and  rode  slowly  away.     The  boy  stood  to  watch 
him. 

Once  when  the  stranger  had  gone  half  across 
the  plain  he  looked  back. 

"  Poor  devil,"  he  said,  smiling  and  stroking  his 
mustache.  Then  he  looked  to  see  if  the  little 
blue  handkerchief  were  still  safely  knotted. 
"  Poor  devil !  " 

He  smiled,  and  then  he  sighed  wearily,  very 
wearily. 

And  Waldo  waited  till  the  moving  speck  had 
disappeared  on  the  horizon  ;  then  he  stooped  and 
kissed  passionately  a  hoof-mark  in  the  sand. 
Then  he  called  his  young  birds  together,  and  put 
his  book  under  his  arm,  and  walked  home  along,' 
the  stone  wall.  There  was  a  rare  beauty  to  him 
in  the  sunshine  that  evening. 

CHAPTER  III. 

GREGORY   ROSE    FINDS    HIS   AFFINITY. 

The  new  man,  Gregory  Rose,  sat  at  the  door 
of  his  dwelling,  his  arms  folded,  his  legs  crossed, 
and  a  profound  melancholy  seeming  to  rest  over 
his  soul.  His  house  was  a  little  square  daub- 
and-wattle  building,  far  out  in  the  "  karroo,"  two 
miles  from  the  homestead.  It  was  covered  out- 
side with  a  somber  coating  of  brown  mud,  two 
little  panes  being  let  into  the  walls  for  windows. 
Behind  it  were  the  "  sheep-kraals,"  and  to  the 
right  a  large  dam,  now  principally  containing 
baked  mud.    Far  off  the  little  "  kopje  "  concealed 


AN  AFRICA!.  FARM.  207 

the  homestead,  and  was  not  itself  an  object  con- 
spicuous enough  to  relieve  the  dreary  monotony 
of  the  landscape. 

Before  the  door  sat  Gregory  Rose  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves, on  a  camp-stool,  and  ever  and  anon  he 
sighed  deeply.  There  was  that  in  his  counte- 
nance for  which  even  his  depressing  circumstances 
failed  to  account.  Again  and  again  he  looked 
at  the  little  "  kopje,"  at  the  milk-pail  at  his  side, 
and  at  the  brown  pony,  who  a  short  way  off 
cropped  the  dry  bushes — and  sighed. 

Presently  he  rose  and  went  into  his  house.  It 
was  one  tiny  room,  the  whitewashed  walls  profusely 
covered  with  prints  cut  from  the  "Illustrated 
London  News,"  and  in  which  there  was  a  notice- 
able preponderance  of  female  faces  and  figures. 
A  stretcher  filled  one  end  of  the  hut,  and  a  rack  for 
a  gun  and  a  little  hanging  looking-glass  diversified 
the  gable  opposite,  while  in  the  center  stood  a 
chair  and  table.  All  was  scrupulously  neat  and 
clean,  for  Gregory  kept  a  little  duster  folded  in 
the  corner  of  his  table-drawer,  just  as  he  had  seen 
his  mother  do,  and  every  morning  before  he  went 
out  he  said  his  prayers,  and  made  his  bed,  and 
dusted  the  table  and  the  legs  of  the  chairs,  and 
even  the  pictures  on  the  wall  and  the  gun-rack. 
On  this  hot  afternoon  he  took  from  beneath  his 
pillow  a  watch-bag  made  by  his  sister  Jemima, 
and  took  out  the  watch.  Only  half-past  four  ! 
With  a  suppressed  groan  he  dropped  it  back  and 
sat  down  beside  the  table.  Half-past  four  I 
Presently  he  roused  himself.  He  would  write  to 
his  sister  Jemima.     He  always  wrote  to  her  when 


2oS  THE  STORY  OF 

he  was  miserable.  She  was  his  safety-valve. 
He  forgot  her  when  he  was  happy  ;  but  he  used 
her  when  he  was  wretched. 

He  took  out  ink  and  paper.  There  was  a- 
family  crest  and  motto  on  the  latter,  for  the  Roses 
since  coming  to  the  colony  had  discovered  that 
they  were  of  distinguished  lineage.  Old  Rose  him- 
self, an  honest  English  farmer,  knew  nothing  of 
his  noble  descent ;  but  his  wife  and  daughter 
knew — especially  his  daughter.  There  were  Roses 
in  England  who  kept  a  Park  and  dated  from  the 
Conquest.  So  the  colonial  "  Rose  Farm  M  became 
"  Rose  Manor  "  in  remembrance  of  the  ancestral 
domain,  and  the  claim  of  the  Roses  to  noble 
blood  was  established — in  their  own  minds  at  least. 

Gregory  took  up  one  of  the  white,  crested 
sheets ;  but  on  deeper  reflection  he  determined 
to  take  a  pink  one,  as  more  suitable  to  the  state 
of  his  feelings.     He  began  : 

"  Kopje  Alone, 
"Monday  Afternoon. 

"  My  dear  Jemima — " 

Then  he  looked  up  into  the  little  glass  opposite 
It  was  a  youthful  face  reflected  there,  with  curl- 
ing brown  beard  and  hair ;  but  in  the  dark  blue 
eyes  there  was  a  look  of  languid  longing  that 
touched  him.     He  re-dipped  his  pen  and  wrote  : — ■ 

"  When  I  look  up  into  the  little  glass  that  hangs 
opposite  me,  I  wonder  if  that  changed  and  sad 
face " 

Here  he  sat  still  and  reflected.  It  sounded 
almost  as  if  he  might  be  conceited  or  unmanly  to 
be  looking  at  his  own  face  in  the  glass.     No,  that 


AJV  AFRICAN  FARM.  209 

would  not  do.     So  he  looked  for  another  pink 
sheet  and  began  again. 

"  Kopje  Alone, 
"  Monday  Afternoon. 

"  Dear  Sister  : 

"  It  is  hardly  six  months  since  I  left  you 
to  come  to  this  spot,  yet  could  you  now  see  me  I 
know  v/hat  you  would  say,  I  know  what  mother 
would  say — '  Can  that  be  our  Greg— that  thing 
with  the  strange  look  in  his  eyes  ? ' 

"  Yes,  Jemima,  it  is  your  Greg,  and  the  change 
has  been  coming  over  me  ever  since  I  came  here  ; 
but  it  is  greatest  since  yesterday.  You  know 
what  sorrows  I  have  passed  through,  Jemima : 
how  unjustly  I  was  always  treated  at  school,  the 
masters  keeping  me  back  and  calling  me  a  block- 
head, though,  as  they  themselves  allowed,  I  had 
the  best  memory  of  any  boy  in  the  school,  and 
could  repeat  whole  books  from  beginning  to  end. 
You  know  how  cruelly  father  always  used  me,  call- 
ing me  a  noodle  and  a  milksop,  just  because  he 
couldn't  understand  my  fine  nature.  You  know 
how  he  has  made  a  farmer  of  me  instead  of  a 
minister,  as  I  ought  to  have  been  ;  you  know  it 
all,  Jemima  ;  and  how  I  have  borne  it  all,  not  as 
a  woman,  who  whines  for  every  touch,  but  as  a 
man  should — -in  silence. 

"  But  there  are  things,  there  is  a  thing,  which 
the  soul  longs  to  pour  forth  into  a  kindred  ear. 

"  Dear  sister,  have  you  ever  known  what  it  is  to 
keep  wanting  and  wanting  and  wanting  to  kiss 
some  one's  mouth,  and  you  may  not ;  to  touch 
some  one's  hand,  and  you  cannot  ?  I  am  in  love, 
Jemima. 
14 


2 1  o  THE  STOR  Y  OF 

"The  old  Dutch-woman  from  whom  I  hire  this 
place  has  a  little  step-daughter,  and  her  name 
begins  with  E. 

"She  is  English.  I  do  not  know  how  her 
father  came  to  marry  a  Boer-woman.  It  makes 
me  feel  so  strange  to  put  down  that  letter,  that  I 
can  hardly  go  on  writing — E.  I've  loved  her 
ever  since  I  came  here.  For  weeks  I  have  not 
been  able  to  eat  or  drink ;  my  very  tobacco  when 
I  smoke  has  no  taste  ;  and  I  can  remain  for  no 
more  than  five  minutes  in  one  place,  and  some- 
times feel  as  though  I  were  really  going  mad. 

"  Every  evening  I  go  there  to  fetch  my  milk. 
Yesterday  she  gave  me  some  coffee.  The  spoon 
fell  on  the  ground.  She  picked  it  up  ;  when  she. 
gave  it  me  her  finger  touched  mine.  Jemima,  I 
do  not  know  if  I  fancied  it — I  shivered  hot,  and 
she  shivered  too  !  I  thought,  '  It  is  all  right ;  she 
will  be  mine ;  she  loves  me  ! '  Just  then,  Jemima, 
in  came  a  fellow,  a  great,  coarse  fellow,  a  German 
— a  ridiculous  fellow,  with  curls  right  down  to  his 
shoulders  ;  it  makes  one  sick  to  look  at  him.  He's 
only  a  servant  of  the  Boer-woman's,  and  a  low, 
vulgar,  uneducated  thing,  that's  never  been  to 
boarding-school  in  his  life.  He  had  been  to  the 
next  farm  seeking  sheep.  When  he  came  in  she 
said, '  Good-evening,  Waldo.  Have  some  coffee ! ' 
and  she  kissed  him. 

"  All  last  night  I  heard  nothing  else  but  '  Have 
some  coffee ;  have  some  coffee.'  If  I  went  to 
sleep  for  a  moment  I  dreamed  that  her  finger  was 
pressing  mine  ;  but  when  I  woke  with  a  start  I 
heard  her  say,  '  Good-evening,  Waldo.  Have 
some  coffee  I ' 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  211 

"  Is  this  madness  ? 

"I  have  not  eaten  a  mouthful  to-day.  This 
evening  I  go  and  propose  to  her.  If  she  refuses 
me  I  shall  go  and  kill  myself  to-morrow.  There 
is  a  dam  of  water  close  by.  The  sheep  have 
drunk  most  of  it  up,  but  there  is  still  enough  if  I 
tie  a  stone  to  my  neck. 

"  It  is  a  choice  between  death  and  madness.  I 
can  endure  no  more.  If  this  sheruld  be  the  last 
letter  you  ever  get  from  me,  think  of  me  tenderly, 
and  forgive  me.  Without  her,  life  would  be  a 
howling  wilderness,  a  long  tribulation.  She  is 
my  affinity ;  the  one  love  of  my  life,  of  my  youth, 
of  my  manhood ;  my  sunshine  ;  my  God-given 
blossom. 

"  '  They  never  loved  who  dreamed  that  they  loved  once, 

And  who  saith,  "  I  loved  once  "  ? 

Not  angels,  whose  deep  eyes  look  down  through  realms 
of  light !  ' 

"  Your  disconsolate  brother,  on  what  is,  in  all 
probability,  the  last  and  distracted  night  of  his 
life, 

"  Gregory  Nazianzen  Rose. 

" P.  S—  Tell  mother  to  take  care  of  my  pearl 
studs.  I  left  them  in  the  wash-hand-stand  drawer. 
Don't  let  the  children  get  hold  of  them. 

"  P  .P.  S. — I  shall  take  this  letter  with  me  to 
the  farm.  If  I  turn  down  one  corner  you  may 
know  I  have  been  accepted ;  if  not  you  may  know 
it  is  all  up  with  your  heart-broken  brother. 

"G.  N.  R." 


212  THE  STORY  OF 

Gregory  having  finished  this  letter,  read  it  over 
with  much  approval,  put  it  in  an  envelope,  ad- 
dressed it,  and  sat  contemplating  the  ink-pot, 
somewhat  relieved  in  mind. 

The  evening  turned  out  chilly  and  very  windy 
after  the  day's  heat.  From  afar  off,  as  Gregory 
neared  the  homestead  on  the  brown  pony,  he 
could  distinguish  a  little  figure  in  a  little  red 
cloak  at  the  door  of  the  cow-kraal.  Em  leaned 
over  the  poles  that  barred  the  gate,  and  watched 
the  frothing  milk  run  through  the  black  fingers 
of  the  herdsman,  while  the  unwilling  cows  stood 
with  tethered  heads  by  the  milking  poles.  She 
had  thrown  the  red  cloak  over  her  own  head,  and 
held  it  under  her  chin  with  a  little  hand  to  keep 
from  her  ears  the  wind,  that  playfully  shook  it,  and 
tossed  the  little  fringe  of  yellow  hair  into  her  eyes. 

"  Is  it  not  too  cold  for  you  to  be  standing  here  ?  " 
said  Gregory,  coming  softly  close  to  her. 

"  Oh,  no ;  it  is  so  nice.  I  always  come  to 
watch  the  milking.  That  red  cow  with  the  short 
horns  is  bringing  up  the  calf  of  the  white  cow 
that  died.  She  loves  it  so — just  as  if  it  were  her 
own.  It  is  so  nice  to  see  her  lick  its  little  ears. 
Just  look ! " 

"  The  clouds  are  black.  I  think  it  is  going  to 
rain  to-night,"  said  Gregory. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Em,  looking  up  as  well  as  she 
could  for  the  little  yellow  fringe. 

"  But  I'm  sure  you  must  be  cold,"  said  Gregory, 
and  put  his  hand  under  the  cloak,  and  found 
there  a  small  fist  doubled  up,  soft  and  very  warm. 
He  held  it  fast  in  his  hand. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM, 


213 


"Oh,  Em,  I  love  you  better  than  all  the  world 
besides  !     Tell  me,  do  you  love  me  a  little  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Em,  hesitating,  and  trying 
softly  to  free  her  hand. 

"  Better  than  everything ;  better  than  all  the 
world,  darling  ? "  he  asked,  bending  down  so  low 
that  the  yellow  hair  was  blown  into  his  eyes. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Em,  gravely.  "  I  do  love 
you  very  much ;  but  I  love  my  cousin  who  is  at 
school,  and  Waldo,  very  much.  You  see  I  have 
known  them  so  long !  "  ' 

"  Oh,  Em,  do  not  talk  to  me  so  coldly,"  Greg- 
ory cried,  seizing  the  little  arm  that  rested  en 
the  gate,  and  pressing  it  till  she  was  half  afraid. 
The  herdsman  had  moved  away  to  the  other  end 
of  the  "  kraal  "  now,  and  the  cows,  busy  with  their 
calves,  took  no  notice  of  the  little  human  farce. 
"  Em,  if  you  talk  so  to  me  I  will  go  mad  !  You 
must  love  me,  love  me  better  than  all !  You  must 
give  yourself  to  me.  I  have  loved  you  since  that 
first  moment  when  I  saw  you  walking  by  the  stone 
wall  with  the  jug  in  your  hands.  You  were  made 
for  me,  created  for  me  !  I  will  love  you  till  I  die  ! 
Oh,  Em,  dd  not  be  so  cold,  so  cruel  to  me  ! " 

He  held  her  arm  so  tightly  that  her  fingers  re- 
laxed their  hold,  and  the  cloak  fluttered  down  on 
to  the  ground,  and  the  wind  played  more  roughly 
than  ever  with  the  little  yellow  head. 

"  I  do  love  you  very  much,"  she  said ;  "  but  I 
do  not  know  if  I  want  to  marry  you.     I  love  you 
better  than  Waldo,  but  I  can't  tell  if  I  love  you 
better  than  Lyndall.     If  you  would  let  me  wait 
a  we'ek,  I  think  perhaps  I  could  tell  you." 


214  THE  STORY  OF 

Gregory  picked  up  the  cloak  and  wrapped  it 
round  her. 

"  If  you  could  but  love  me  as  I  love  you/'  he 
said ;  "  but  no  woman  can  love  as  a  man  can.  I 
will  wait  till  next  Saturday.  I  will  not  once  come 
near  you  till  then.  Good-bye  !  Oh.  Em,"  he  said, 
turning  again,  and  twining  his  arm  about  her,  and 
kissing  her  surprised  little  mouth,  "  if  you  are  not 
my  wife  I  cannot  live.  I  have  never  loved  another 
woman,  and  I  never  shall ! — never,  never  !  " 

"  You  make  me  afraid,"  said  Em.  "  Come  let 
us  go,  and  I  will  fill  your  pail." 

"  I  want  no  milk. — Good-bye  !  You  will  not  see 
me  again  till  Saturday." 

Late  that  night,  when  every  one  else  had  gone 
to  bed,  the  yellow-haired  little  woman  stood  alone 
in  the  kitchen.  She  had  come  to  fill  the  kettle 
for  the  next  morning's  coffee,  and  now  stood 
before  the  fire.  The  warm  reflection  lit  the  grave 
old-womanish  little  face,  that  was  so  unusually 
thoughtful  this  evening. 

"  Better  than  all  the  world ;  better  than  every- 
thing ;  he  loves  me  better  than  everything !  " 
She  said  the  words  aloud,  as  if  they  were  more 
easy  to  believe  if  she  spoke  them  so.  She  had 
given  out  so  much  love  in  her  little  life,  and  had 
got  none  of  it  back  with  interest.  Now  one  said, 
"  I  love  you  better  than  all  the  world."  One  loved 
her  better  than  she  loved  him.  How  suddenly 
rich  she  was.  She  kept  clasping  and  unclasping 
her  hands.  So  a  beggar  feels  who  falls  asleep  on 
the  pavement  wet  and  hungry,  and  who  wakes  in 
a  palace-hall  with  servants  and  lights,,  and  a  feast 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  213 

before  him.  Of  course  the  beggar's  is  only  a 
dream,  and  he  wakes  from  it ;  and  this  was  real. 
Gregory  had  said  to  her,  "  I  will  love  you  as 
long  as  I  live."  She  said  the  words  over  and 
over  to  herself  like  a  song. 

"  I  will  send  for  him  to-morrow,  and  I  will  tell 
him  how  I  love  him  back,"»she  said. , 

But  Em  needed  not  to  send  for  him.  Gregory 
discovered  on  reaching  home  that  Jemima's  letter 
was  still  in  his  pocket.  And,  therefore,  much  as 
he  disliked  the  appearance  of  vacillation  and 
weakness,  he  was  obliged  to  be  at  the  farm-house 
before  sunrise  to  post  it. 

"  If  I  see  her,"  Gregory  said,  "  I  shall  only  bow 
to  her.  She  shall  see  that  I  am  a  man,  one  who 
keeps  his  word." 

As  to  Jemima's  letter,  he  had  turned  down  one 
corner  of  the  page,  and  then  turned  it  back,  leav- 
ing a  deep  crease.  That  would  show  that  he  was 
neither  accepted  nor  rejected,  but  that  matters 
were  in  an  intermediate  condition.  _  It  was  a  more 
poetical  way  than  putting  it  in  plain  words. 

Gregory  was  barely  in  time  with  his  letter,  for 
Waldo  was  starting  when  he  reached  the  home- 
stead, and  Em  was  on  the  door-step  to  see  him 
off.  When  he  had  given  the  letter,  and  Waldo 
had  gone,  Gregory  bowed  stiffly  and  prepared  to 
remount  his  own  pony,  but  somewhat  slowly.  It 
was  still  early ;  none  of  the  servants  were  about. 
Em  came  up  close  to  him  and  put  her  little  hand 
softly  on  his  arm  as  he  stood  by  his  horse. 

"  I  do  love  you  best  of  all,"  she  said.  She  was 
not   frightened   now,  however  much  he   kissed 


2i6  THE  STORY  OF 

her.  "  I  wish  I  was  beautiful  and  nice,"  she 
added,  looking  up  into  his  eyes  as  he  held  her 
against  his  breast. 

"  My  darling,  to  me  you  are  more  beautiful  than 
all  the  women  in  the  world  ;  dearer  ■  to  me  than 
everything  it  holds.  If  you  were  in  hell  I  would 
go  after  you  to  find  you  there  !  If  you  were  dead, 
though  my  body  moved,  my  soul  would  be  under 
the  ground  with  you.  All  life  as  I  pass  it  with 
you  in  my  arms  will  be  perfect  to  me.  It  will 
pass,  pass  like  a  ray  of  sunshine." 

Em  thought  how  beautiful  and  grand  his  face 
was  as  she  looked  up  into  it.  She  raised  her  hand 
gently  and  put  it  on  his  forehead. 

"  You  are  so  silent,  so  cold,  my  Em,"  he  cried. 
"  Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?  " 

A  little  shade  of  wonder  filled  her  eyes. 

"  I  will  do  everything  you  tell  me,"  she  said. 

What  else  could  she  say  ?  Her  idea  of  love 
was  only  service. 

"  Then,  my  own  precious  one,  promise  never 
to  kiss  that  fellow  again.  I  cannot  bear  that  you 
should  love  any  one  but  me.  You  must  not !  I 
will  not  have  it !  If  every  relation  I  had  in  the 
world  were  to  die  to-morrow, .  I  would  be  quite 
happy  if  I  still  only  had  you  !  My  darling,  my 
love,  why  are  you  so  cold  ?  Promise  me  not  to  love 
him  any  more.  If  you  ask  me  to  do  anything  for 
you,  I  would  do  it,  though  it  cost  my  life." 

Em  put  her  hand  very  gravely  round  his  neck. 

"  I  will  never  kiss  him,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will 
try  not  to  love  any  one  else.  But  I  do  not  know 
if  I  will  be  able." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  2 1 7 

"  Oh,  my  darling,  I  think  of  you  all  night,  all 
day.  I  think  of  nothing  else,  love  nothing  else," 
he  said,  folding  his  arms  about  her. 

Em  was  a  little  conscience-stricken ;  even  that 
morning  she  had  found  time  to  remember  that  in 
six  months  her  cousin  would  come  back  from 
school,  and  she  had  thought  to  remind  Waldo  of 
the  lozenges  for  his  cough,  even  when  she  saw 
Gregory  coming. 

"  I  do  not  know  how  it  is,  she  said  numbly, 
nestling  to  him,  "  but  I  cannot  love  you  so  much 
as  you  love  me.  Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  only 
a  woman  ;  but  I  do  love  you  as  much  as  I  can." 
Now  the  Kaffir  maids  were  coming  from  the 
huts.  He  kissed  her  again,  eyes  and  mouth  and 
hands,  and  left  her. 

Tant'  Sannie  was  well  satisfied  when  told  of 
the  betrothment.  She  herself  contemplated 
marriage  within  the  year  with  one  or  other  of  her 
numerous  "  vrijers,"  and  she  suggested  that  the 
weddings  might  take  place  together. 

Em  set  to  work  busily  to  prepare  her  own  house- 
hold linen  and  wedding  garments.  Gregory  was 
with  her  daily,  almost  hourly,  and  the  six  months 
which  elapsed  before  Lyndall's  return  passed,  as 
he  felicitously  phrased  it,  "  like  a  summer  night, 
when  you  are  dreaming  of  some  one  you  love." 
Late  one  evening,  Gregory  sat  by  his  little  love, 
turning  the  handle  of  her  machine  as  she  drew 
her  work  through  it,  and  they  talked  of  the 
changes  they  would  make  when  the  Boer- worn  an 
was  gone,  and  the  farm  belonged  to  them  ilone. 
There  should  be  a  new  room  here,  and  ?  kraal 


2l8  THE  STORY  OF 

there.  So  they  chatted  on.  Suddenly  Gregory 
dropped  the  handle,  and  impressed  a  fervent  kiss 
on  the  fat  hand  that  guided  the  linen. 

"  You  are  so  beautiful,  Em,"  said  the  lover, 
"It  comes  over  me  in  a  flood  suddenly,  how  I 
love  you." 

Em  smiled. 

"  Tant'  Sannie  says  when  I  am  her  age  no  one 
will  look  at  me ;  and  it  is  true.  My  hands  are 
as  short  and  broad  as  a  duck's  foot,  and  my  fore- 
head is  so  low,  and  I  haven't  any  nose.  I  can't 
be  pretty." 

She  laughed  softly.  It  was  so  nice  to  think 
he  should  be  so  blind. 

"  When  my  cousin  comes  to-morrow  you  will 
see  a  beautiful  woman,  Gregory,"  she  added  pres- 
ently. "  She  is  like  a  little  queen  :  her  shoulders 
are  so  upright,  and  her  head  looks  as  though  it 
ought  to  have  a  little  crown  upon  it.  You  must 
come  to  see  her  to-morrow  as  soon  as  she  comes. 
I  am  sure  you  will  love  her." 

"  Of  course  I  shall  come  to  see  her,  since  she 
is  your  cousin  ;  but  do  you  think  I  could  ever 
think  any  woman  as  lovely  as  I  think  you  ? " 

He  fixed  his  seething  eyes  upon  her. 

"  You  could  not  help  seeing  that  she  is  prettier," 
said  Em,  slipping  her  right  hand  into  his ;  "  but 
you  will  never  be  able  to  like  any  one  so  much 
as  you  like  me." 

Afterward,  when  she  wished  her  lover  good- 
night, she  stood  upon  the  door-step  to  call  a 
greeting  after  him  ;  and  she  waited,  as  she  always 
did,  till  the  brown  pony's  hoofs  became  inaudible 
behind  the  "  kopje." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  2 19 

Then  she  passed  through  the  room  where  Tant' 
Sannie  lay  snoring,  and  through  the  little 
room  that  was  all  draped  in  white,  waiting  for 
her  cousin's  return,  on  to  her  own  room. 

She  went  to  the  chest  of  drawers  to  put  away 
the  work  she  had  finished,  and  sat  down  on  the 
floor  before  the  lowest  drawer.  In  it  were  the 
things  she  was  preparing  for  her  marriage.  Piles 
of  white  linen,  and  some  aprons  and  quilts ;  and 
in  the  little  box  in  the  corner  a  spray  of  orange- 
blossom  which  she  had  brought  from  a  smouse. 
There,  too,  was  a  ring  Gregory  had  given  her, 
and  a  veil  his  sister  had  sent,  and  there  was  a 
little  roll  of  fine  embroidered  work  which  Trana 
had  given  her.  It  was  too  fine  and  good  even 
for  Gregory's  wife — just  right  for  something  very 
small  and  soft.  She  would  keep  it.  And  she 
touched  it  gently  with  her  forefinger,  smiling; 
and  then  she  blushed  and  hid  it  far  behind  the 
other  things.  She  knew  so  well  all  that  was  in 
that  drawer,  and  yet  she  turned  them  all  over  as 
though  she  saw  them  'for  the  first  time,  packed 
them  all  out,  and  packed  them  all  in,  without  one 
fold  or  crumple  ;  and  then  sat  down  and  looked 
at  them. 

To-morrow  evening  when  Lyndall  came  she 
would  bring  her  here,  and  show  it  her  all.  Lyn- 
dall would  so  like  to  see  it— the  little  wreath,  and 
the  ring,  and  the  white  veil  !  It  would  be  so 
nice  !  Then  Era  fell  to  seeing  pictures.  Lyn- 
dall should  live  with  them  till  she  herself  got 
married  some  day. 

Every  day  when  Gregory  came  home,  tired  from 


220  THE  STORY  OF 

his  work,  he  would  look  about  and  say,  "  Where 
is  my  wife  ?  Has  no  one  seen  my  wife  ?  Wife, 
some  coffee  -I  "  and  she  would  give  him  some. 

Em's  little  face  grew  very  grave  at  last,  and 
she  knelt  up  and  extended  her  hands  over  the', 
drawer  of  linen. 

"  Oh,  God  ! "  she  said,  "  I  am  so  glad !  I  do 
not  know  what  I  have  done  that  I  should  be  so 
glad,     Thank  you  !  " 

CHAPTER  IV. 

LYNDALL. 

She  was  more  like  a  princess,  yes,  far  more 
like  a  princess,  than  the  lady  who  still  hung  on 
the  wall  in  Tant'  Sannie's  bedroom.  So  Em 
thought.  She  leaned  back  in  the  little  arm- 
chair ;  she  wore  a  gray  dressing-gown,  and  her 
long  hair  was  combed  out  and  hung  to  the  ground. 
Em,  sitting  before  her,  looked  up  with  mingled 
respect  and  admiration. 

Lyndall  was  tired  after  her  long  journey,  and 
had  come  to  her  room  early.  Her  eyes  ran  over 
the  familiar  objects.  Strange  to  go  away  for 
four  years,  and  come  back,  and  find  that  the 
candle  standing  on  the  dressing-table  still  cast 
the  shadow  of  an  old  crone's  head  in  the  corner 
beyond  the  clothes-horse.  Strange  that  even  a 
shadow  should  last  longer  than  the  man !  She 
looked  about  among  the  old  familiar  objects  ;  all 
was  there,  but  the  old  self  was  gone. 

"  What  are  vou  noticing  ?  "  asked  Em. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  2 2 1 

"Nothing  and  everything.  I  thought  the 
windows  were  higher.  If  I  were  you,  when  I  get 
this  place  I  should  raise  the  walls.  There  's  not 
room  to  breathe  here  ;  one  suffocates." 

"  Gregory  is  going  to  make  many  alterations, 
said  Em  ;  and  drawing  nearer  to  the  gray  dress- 
ing-gown respectfully.     "  Do  you  like  him,  Lyn- 
dall  ?     Is  he  not  handsome  ? " 

"  He  must  have  been  a  fine  baby,"   said  Lyn- 
dall,  looking  at  the  white   dimity   curtain  that 
hung  above  the  window. 
Em  was  puzzled. 

"  There  are  some  men,"  said  Lyndall,  whom 
you  never  can  believe  were  babies  at  all ;  and 
others  you  never  see  without  thinking  how  very 
nice  they  must  have  looked  when  they  wore  socks 
and  pink  sashes." 

Em  remained  silent ;  then  she  said  with  a  little 
dignity,  "  When  you  know  him  you  will  love  him 
as  I  do.  When  I  compare  other  people  with 
him,  they  seem  so  weak  and  little.  Our  hearts 
are  so  cold,  our  loves  are  mixed  up  with  so  many 
other  things.  But  he— no  one  is  worthy  of  his 
love.     I  am  not.     It  is  so  great  and  pure. 

"  You  need  not  make  yourself  unnappy  on  that 
point—your  poor  return  for  his  love,  my  dear, 
said  Lyndall.  "  A  man's  love  is  a  fire  of  olive- 
wood.  It  leaps  higher  every  moment ;  it  roars, 
it  blazes,  it  shoots  out  red  flames ;  it  threatens  to 
wrap  you  round  and  devour  you— you  who  stand 
by  like  an  icicle  in  the  glow  of  its  fierce  warmth. 
You  are  self-reproached  at  your  own  chilliness 
and  want  of  reciprocity.     The  next  day,  wben 


222  THE  STORY  OF 

you  go  to  warm  your  hands  a  little,  you  find  a 
.few  ashes !  'Tis  a  long  love  and  cool  against 
a  short  love  and  hot ,  men,  at  all  events,  have 
nothing  to  complain  of." 

"  You  speak  so  because  you  do  not  know 
men,"  said  Em,  instantly  assuming  the  dignity  of 
superior  knowledge  so  universally  affected  by 
affianced  and  married  women  in  discussing  man's 
nature  with  their  uncontracted  sisters. 

"  You  will  know  them,  too,  some  day,  and  *hen 
you  will  think  differently,"  said  Em,  with  the  con- 
descending magnanimity  which  superior  knowl- 
edge can  always  afford  to  show  to  ignorance. 

Lyndall's  little  lip  quivered  in  a  manner  indi- 
cative of  intense  amusement.  She  twirled  a  mas- 
sive ring  upon  her  forefinger — a  ring  more  suit-' 
able  for  the  hand  of  a  man,  and  noticeable  in 
design — a  diamond  cross  let  into  gold,  with  the 
Initials  "  R.  R."  below  it. 

"  Ah,  Lyndall,"  Em  cried,  "  perhaps  you  are 
engaged  yourself — that  is  why  you  smile.  Yes  ; 
I  am  sure   you  are.     Look  at  this  ring !  " 

Lyndall  drew  the  hand  quickly  from  her. 

"  I  am  not  in  so  great  a  hurry  to  put  my  neck 
beneath  any  man's  foot ;  and  I  do  not  so  greatly 
admire  the  crying  of  babies,"  she  said,  as  she 
closed  her  eyes  half  wearily  and  leaned  back  in 
the  chair.  "  There  are  other  women  glad  of 
such  work." 

Em  felt  rebuked  and  ashamed.  How  could 
she  take  Lyndall  and  show  her  the  white  linen 
and  the  wreath  and  the  embroidery  ?  She  was 
r.uiet  for  a  little  while,  and  then  began  to  talk 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  223 

about  Trana  and  the  old  farm-servants,  till  she 
oaw  her  companion  was  weary  ;  then  she  rose 
and  left  her  for  the  night.  But  after  Em  was 
gone  Lyndall  sat  on,  watching  the  old  crone's 
i:ace  in  the  corner,  and  with  a  weary  look,  as 
though  the  whole  world's  weight  rested  on  these 
frail  young  shoulders. 

The  next  morning,  Waldo,  starting  off  before 
breakfast  with  a  bag  of  mealies  slung  over  his 
shoulder  to  feed  the  ostriches,  heard  a  light  step 
behind  him. 

"  Wait  for  me ;  I  am  coming  with  you,"  said 
Lyndall,  adding  as  she  came  up  to  him,  "  If  I 
had  not  gone  to  look  for  you  yesterday  you 
would  not  have  come  to  greet  me  till  now.  Do 
you  not  like  me  any  longer,  Waldo  ?  " 

"  Yes — but — you  are  changed." 

It  was  the  old  clumsy,  hesitating  mode  of 
speech. 

"  You  liked  the  pinafores  better  ? "  she  said 
quickly.  She  wore  a  dress  of  a  simple  cotton 
fabric,  but  very  fashionably  made,  and  on  hef 
head  was  a  broad  white  hat.  To  Waldo  she 
seemed  superbly  attired.  She  saw  it.  "  My 
dress  has  changed  a  little,"  she  said,  "  and 
I  also ;  but  not  to  you.  Hang  the  bag  over  your 
other  shoulder,  that  I  may  see  yOur  face. 
You  say  so  little  that  if  one  does  not  look 
at  you,  you  are  an  uncomprehended  cipher. 
Waldo  changed  the  bag  and  they  walked  on  side 
by  side.  "  You  have  improved,"  she  said. 
"  Do  you  know  that  I  have  sometimes  wished  to 
see  you  while  I  was  away ;  not  often,  but  still 
sometimes."  ,- 


224  THE  STORY  OF 

They  were  at  the  gate  of  the  first  camp  now. 
Waldo  threw  over  a  bag  of  mealies,  and  they 
walked  on  over  the  dewy  ground. 

"  Have   you    learnt   much  ? "     he    asked    her 
simply,    remembering   how   she   had  once   said, 
"  When  I  come  back  again  I  shall  know  every- 
thing that  a  human  being  can." 
She  laughed. 

f^    "  Are  you  thinking  of  my  old  boast  ?     Yes  ;  I 
have  learnt  something,  though  hardly  what  I  ex- 
pected, and  not  quite  so  much.     In  the  first  place, 
I  have  learnt  that  one  of  my  ancestors  must  have 
been    a   very  great   fool;  for  they   say   nothing 
comes  out  in  a1  man  but  one  of  his  forefathers 
possessed  it  before  him.     In  the  second  place,  I 
have  discovered  that  of  all  cursed  places  under 
the   sun,  where   the   hungriest   soul  can   hardly 
pick  up  a  few  grains  of  knowledge,  a  girl's  board- 
ing-school is  the  worst.     They  are  called  finishing 
schools,  and  the  name  tells  accurately  what  they 
are.     They  finish   everything  but  imbecility  and 
I   weakness,    and   that    they   cultivate.     They   are 
nicely  adapted   machines   for   experimenting  on 
I    the  question,  '  Into   how   little   space   a   human 
|    soul  can  be  crushed  ? '     I  have  seen  some  souls 
I    so  compressed  that  they  would  have  fitted  into  a 
I   small  thimble,  and  found  room  to   move  there— 
l  wide  room.     A  woman  who  has  been  for  many 
\  years  at  one  of  those  places  carries  the  mark  of 
|  the  beast  on  her  till   she   dies,  though   she  may 
I  expand  a  little  afterward,  when  she  breathes  in 
•  the  free  world." 

"  Were  you  miserable  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  at 
her  with  quick  anxiety. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  225 

"I?— -no.     I  am  never  miserable    and    never 
happy.     I  wish  I  were.     But  I   should  have   run 
away  from  the  place  on  the  fourth  day,  and  hired 
myself   to   the   first    Boer- worn  an    whose  farm  I 
came  to,  to  make  fire  under  her  soap-pot,  if  I  had 
to  live  as  the  rest  of  the   drove   did.     Can  you" 
form   an   idea,  Waldo,  of   what  it  must  be  to  be 
shut  up  with  cackling  old  women,  who  are  without 
knowledge  of  life,  without  love  of  the  beautiful, 
without  strength,  to  have  your  soul  cultured  by 
them  ?     It  is  suffocation  only  to  breathe  the  airj 
they  breathe ;  but  I  made  them  give  me  room. 
I  told  them  I    should  leave,  and   they  knew   I 
came  there  on  my  own   account ;  so   they  gave 
me  a  bedroom  without  the  companionship  of  one 
of  those  things    that   were   having   their   brains 
slowly  diluted  and  squeezed  out  of  them.     I  did 
not  learn  music,   because  I  had  no  talent;  and 
when    the    drove    made    cushions,    and   hideous 
flowers  that  the  roses  laugh  at,  and  a  footstool 
in  six  weeks  that  a  machine  would  have  made 
better    in   five    minutes,    I    went   to    my  room. 
With  the  money  saved  from  such  work  I  bought 
books  and   newspapers,   and  at  night  I  sat  up. 
I    read    and    epitomized   what   I    read  ;    and   I 
found  time  to  write  some  plays,  and  find  out  how 
hard  it  is  to  make  your  thoughts  look  anything 
but  imbecile  fools  when  you  paint  them  with  ink 
on  paper.     In  the  holidays  I  learnt  a  great  deal 
more.     I  made  acquaintances,  saw   a  few  places 
and  many  people,   and   some  different   ways  of 
living,  which  is  more  than  any  books  can  show 
one.     On  the  whole,  I  am  not  dissatisfied  with 


226  THE  STORY  OF 

my  four  years.  I  have  not  learnt  what  I  ex- 
pected ;  but  I  have  learnt  something  else.  What 
have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  That  is  not  possible.  I  shall  find  out  by 
and  by." 

They  still  stepped  on  side  by  side  over  the 
dewy  bushes.     Then  suddenly  she  turned  on  him. 

"  Don't  you  wish  you  were  a  woman,  Waldo  ?  " 

"  No,'*  he  answered  readily. 

She  laughed. 

"  I  thought  not.  Even  you  are  too  worldly- 
wise  for  that.  I  never  met  a  man  who  did.  This 
is  a  pretty  ring,"'  she  said,  holding  out  her  little 
hand,  that  the  morning  sun  might  make  the  dia- 
monds sparkle.  "  Worth  fifty  pounds  at  least.  I 
will  give  it  to  the  first  man  who  tells  me  he  would 
like  to  be  a  woman.  There  might  be  one  on 
Robbin  Island  *  who  would  win  it  perhaps,  but  I 
doubt  it  even  there.  It  is  delightful  to  be  a 
Ionian  ;  but  every  man  thanks  the  Lord  devoutly 
achat  he  isn't  one." 

She  drew  her  hat  to  one  side  to  keep  the  sun 
out  of  her  eyes  as  she  walked.  Waldo  looked  at 
tier  so  intently  that  he  stumbled  over  the  bushes. 
Yes,  this  was  his  little  Lyndall  who  had  worn  the 
check  pinafores ;  he  saw  it  now,  and  he  walked 
closer  beside  her.  They  reached  the  next 
wrap. 

"  Let  us  wait  at  this  camp  and  watch  the  birds," 
sLe  said,  as  an  ostrich  hen  came  bounding  toward 

♦Lunatics  at  the  Cape  are  sent  to  Robbin  Island, 


AN  A FRICA N  FA RM.  227 

them,  with  velvety  wings  outstretched,  while  far 
away  over  the  bushes  the  head  of  the  cock  was 
visible  as  he  sat  brooding  on  the  eggs. 

Lyndall  folded  her  arms  on  the  gate  bar,  and 
Waldo  threw  his  empty  bag  on  the  wall  and  leaned 
beside  her. 

"  I  like  these  birds,"  she  said ;  "  they  share 
each  other's  work,  and  are  companions.  Do 
you  take  an  interest  in  the  position  of  women, 
Waldo  ? " 

"  No." 

"  I  thought  not.  No  one  does,  unless  they  are 
in  need  of  a  subject  upon  which  to  show  their 
wit.  And  as  for  you,  from  of  old  you  can  see 
nothing  that  is  not  separated  from  you  by  a  few 
millions  of  miles,  and  strewed  over  with  mystery. 

If  women  were  the  inhabitants  of  Jupiter,  of 
whom  you  had  happened  to  hear  something,  you 
would  pore  over  us  and  our  condition  night  and 
day ;  but  because  we  are  before  your  eyes  you 
never  look  at  us.  You  care  nothing  that  this  is 
ragged  and  ugly,"  she  said,  putting  her  little 
finger  on  his  sleeve  ;  "  but  you  strive  mightily  to 
make  an  imaginary  leaf  on  an  old  stick  beautiful. 
I'm  sorry  you  don't  care  for  the  position  of 
women :  I  should  have  liked  us  to  be  friends  ; 
and  it  is  the  only  thing  about  which  I  think  much 
or  feel  much — if,  indeed,  I  have  any  feeling  about 
anything,"  she  added  flippantly,  readjusting  her 
dainty  little  arms.  "  When  I  was  a  baby,  I  fancy 
my  parents  left  me  out  in  the  frost  one  night,  and 
I  got  nipped  internally — it  feels  so  !  " 

"  I  have  only  a  few  old  thoughts,"  he  said,  "and 


228  THE  STORY  OF 

I  think  them  over  and  over  again ;  always  begin- 
ning  where  I  left  off.  I  never  get  any  further.  I 
am  weary  of  them." 

"  Like  an  old  hen  that  sits  on  its  eggs  month 
after  month  and  they  never  come  out?"  she  said 
quickly.  "  I  am  so  pressed  in  upon  by  new 
things  that,  lest  they  should  trip  one  another  up, 
I  have  to  keep  forcing  them  back.  My  head 
swings  sometimes.  But  this  one  thought  stands, 
never  goes — if  I  might  but  be  one  of  those  born 
in  the  future  ;  then,  perhaps,  to  be  born  a  woman 
will  not  be  to  be  born  branded." 

Waldo  looked  at  her..  It  was  hard  to  say 
whether  she  were  in  earnest  or  mocking. 

"  I  know  it  is  foolish.  Wisdom  never  kicks  at 
the  iron  walls  it  can't  bring  down,"  she  said.  "  But 
we  are  cursed,  Waldo,  born  cursed  from  the  time 
our  mothers  bring  us  into  the  world  till  the  shrouds 
are  put  on  us.  Do  not  look  at  me- as  though  I 
were  talking  nonsense.  Everything  has  two  sides 
- — the  outside  that  is  ridiculous,  and  the  inside 
that  is  solemn." 

"  I  am  not  laughing,"  said  the  boy  sedately 
enough  ;  "  but  what  curses  you !  " 

He  thought  she  would  not  reply  to  him,  she 
waited  so  long. 

"  It  is  not  what  is  done  to  us,  but  what  is  made 
of  us,"  she  said  at  last,  "  that  wrongs  us.  No 
man  can  be  really  injured  but  by  what  modifies 
himself.  We  all  enter  the  world  little  plastic 
beings,  with  so  much  natural  force,  perhaps,  but 
for  the  rest — blank  •  and  the  world  tells  us  what 
we  are  to  be,  and  shapes  us  by  the  ends  it  sets 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  229 

before  us.  To  you  it  says—  Work  ;  and  to  us  it 
savs__ Seem  !  To  you  it  says— As  you  approxi- 
mate to  man's  highest  ideal  of  God,  as  your  arm 
is  strong  and  your  knowledge  great  and  the  power- 
to  labor  is  with  you,  so  you  shall  gam  all  that 
human  heart  desires.  To  us  it  says-Strength 
shall  not  help  you,  nor  knowledge,  nor  labor. 
You  shall  gain  what  men  gam,  but  by  other 
means.      And   so   the    world    makes   men   and 

women.  .       „     .       „.  . ,        ..u 

"  Look  at  this  little  chm  of  mine,  Waldo,  with 
the  dimple  in  it.     It  is  but  a  small  part  of  my 
person;  but  though  I  had  a  knowledge  of  ail 
things  under  the  sun,  and  the  wisdom  to  use  it, 
and  the  deep  loving  heart  of  an  angel,  it  would 
not  stead  me  through  life  like  this  little  chin.     I 
can  win  money  with  it,  I  can  win  love  ;  I  can  win 
power  with  it,  I  can  win  fame.      What  would 
knowledge  help  me  ?     The  less  a  woman  has  in 
her  head  the  lighter  she  is  for  climbing.  _  I  once 
heard  an  old  man  say  that  he  never  saw  intellect 
help  a  woman  so  much  as  a  pretty  ankle  ;  and  it 
was  the  truth.     They  begin  to  shape  us  tQ>  our 
cursed  end,"  she  said,  with  her  lips  drawn  into 
look  as  though  they  smiled,  "when  we  are  tiny 
things  in  shoes  and  socks.     We  sit  with  our  little 
feet  drawn  up  under  us  in  the  window,  and  look 
out  at  the  boys  in  their  happy  play.     We  want 
to  go.     Then  a  loving  hand  is  laid  on  us :     Little 
one,  you  cannot  go,'   they  say,  'your  little  face 
will  burn,  and  your  nice  white  dress  be  spoiled. 
We  feel  it  must  be  for  our  good,  it  is  so  lovingly 
gaid ;  but  we  cannot  understand ;  and  we  kneel 


£3$  tb&  irony  om 

still  with  one  little  cheek  wistfully  pressed  against 
the  pane.  Afterward  we  go  and  thread  blue 
beads,  and  make  a  string  for  our  neck ;  and  we 
go  and  stand  before  the  glass.  We  see  the  com- 
plexion  we  were  not  to  spoil,  and  the  white  frock, 
and  we  look  into  our  own  great  eyes.  Then  the 
curse  begins  to  act  on  us.  It  finishes  its  work 
when  we  are  grown  women,  who  no  more  look 
out  wistfully  at  a  more  healthy  life  ;  we  are  con- 
tented. We  fit  our  sphere  as  a  Chinese  woman's 
foot  fits  he.r  shoe,  exactly,  as  though  God  had 
made  both — and  yet  He  knows  nothing  of  either. 
In  some  of  us  the  shaping  to  our  end  has  been 
quite  completed.  The  parts  we  are  not  to  use 
have  been  quite  atrophied,  and  have  even  dropped 
off ;  but  in  others,  and  we  are  not  less  to  be  pitied, 
they  have  been  weakened  and  left.  We  wear  the 
bandages,  but  our  limbs  have  not  grown  to  them  ; 
we  know  that  we  are  compressed,  and  chafe 
against  them. 

"  But  what  does  it  help  ?  A  little  bitterness,  a 
little  longing  when  we  are  young,  a  little  futile 
searching  for  work,  a  little  passionate  striving 
for  room  for  the  exercise  of  our  powers — and  then 
we  go  with  the  drove.  A  woman  must  march 
with  her  regiment.  In  the  end  she  must  be  trod- 
den down  or  go  with  it ;  and  if  she  is  wise  she 
goes. 

"  I  see  in  your  great  eyes  what  you  are  think- 
ing," she  said,  glancing  at  him ;  "  I  always  know 
what  the  person  I  am  talking  to  is  thinking  of. 
How  is  this  woman  who  makes  such  a  fuss  worse 
off   than   I  ?     I  will   show   you  by  a  very  little 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  23: 


example.     We  stand  here  at  this  gate  this  morn- 
ing,  both  poor,  both  young,  both  friendless  ;  there 
is  not  much  to  choose  between  us.     Let  us  turn 
away  just  as  we  are,  to  make  our  way  in  life. 
This  evening  you  will  come  to  a  farmer  s  house 
The  farmer,  albeit  you  come  alone  and  on  toot, 
will  give  you  a  pipe  of  tobacco  and  a  cup  of  coffee 
and  a  bed.     If  he  has  no  dam  to  build  and  no 
child  to  teach,  to-morrow  you  can  go  on  your  way 
with  a  friendly  greeting  of  the  hand      I,  it  1  come 
to   the  same   place    to-night,    will  have   strange 
questions  asked  me,  strange  glances  cast  on  me 
The  Boer-wife  will  shake  her  head  and  give  me 
food  to  eat  with  the  Kaffirs,  and  a  right  to  sleep 
with  the  dogs.     That  would  be  the  first  step  in 
our  progress-a  very  little  one,  but  every  step  to 
the  end  would  repeat  it.     We  were  equals  once 
when  we  lay  new-born  babes  on  our  nurses  knees. 
We  will  be  equals  again  when  they  tie  up  our  jaws 
for  the  last  sleep." 

Waldo  looked  in  wonder  at  the  little  quivering 
face  ;  it  was  a  glimpse  into  a  world  of  passion 
and  feeling  wholly  new  to  him. 

"Mark  you,"  she  said,  "we  have  always  this 
advantage  over  you-we  can  at  any  time  step  into 
ease  and  competence,  where  you  must  labor  pa- 
tiently for  it.  A  little  weeping,  a  little  wheedling, 
a  little  self-degradation,  a  little  careful  use  of  our 
advantages,  and  then  some  man  will  say—  Come, 
be  my  wife  ! '  With  good  looks  and  youth  mar- 
riage is  easy  to  attain.  There  are  men  enough  ; 
bufa  woman  who  has  sold  herself,  even  for  a  ring 
and  a  new  name,  need  hold  her  skirt  aside  for  no 


232  THE  STORY  OF 

creature  in  the  street.  They  both  earn  their  bread 
in  one  way.  Marriage  for  love  is  the  beautifulest 
external  symbol  of  the  union  of  souls  ;  marriage 
without  it  is  the  uncleanliest  traffic  that  defiles  the 
world."  She  ran  her  little  finger  savagely  along 
the  topmost  bar,  shaking  off  the  dozen  little  dew- 
drops  that  still  hung  there.  "  And  they  tell  us 
that  we  have  men's  chivalrous  attention  !  "  she 
cried.  "When  we  ask  to  be  doctors,  lawyers, 
law-makers,  anything  but  ill-paid  drudges,  they 
say — No ;  but  you  have  men's  chivalrous  atten- 
tion ;  now  think  of  that  and  be  satisfied  !  What 
would  you  do  without  it  ?  " 

The  bitter  little  silvery  laugh,  so  seldom  heard, 
rang  out  across  the  bushes.  She  bit  her  little 
teeth  together. 

"  I  was  coming  up  in  Cobb  &  Co.'s  the  other 
day.  At  a  little  wayside  hotel  we  had  to  change 
the  large  coach  for  a  small  one.  We  were  ten 
passengers,  eight  men  and  two  women.  As  I 
sat  in  the  house  the  gentlemen  came  and  whis- 
pered to  me,  '  There  is  not  room  for  all  in  the  new 
coach,  take  your  seat  quickly.'  We  hurried  out, 
and  they  gave  me  the  best  seat,  and  covered  me 
with  rugs,  because  it  was  drizzling.  Then  the 
last  passenger  came  running  up  to  the  coach — 
an  old  woman  with  a  wonderful  bonnet,  and  a 
black  shawl  pinned  with  a  yellow  pin. 

"  '  There  is  no  room,'  they  said ;  '  you  must 
wait  till  next  week's  coach  takes  you  up  ; '  but  she 
climbed  on  to  the  step,  and  held  on  at  the  window 
with  both  hands. 

" '  My  son-in-law  is  ill,  and  I  must  go  and  see 
him,'  she  said. 


A  AT  AFRICAN  FARM.  233 

Ui  My  good  woman/  said  one,  *  I  am  really  ex- 
ceedingly sorry  that  your  son-in-law  is  ill;  but 
there  is  absolutely  no  room  for  you  here/ 

"  *  You  had  better  get  clown,'  said  another,  '  or 
the  wheel  will  catch  you.' 

"  I  got  up  to  give  her  my  place. 

"  Oh,  no,  no  ! '  they  cried,  '  we  will  not  allow 
that.' 

"  *  I  will  rather  kneel,'  said  one,  and  he  crouched 
down  at  my  feet ;  so  the  woman  came  in. 

"  There  were  nine  of  us  in  that  coach,  and  only 
one  showed  chivalrous  attention — and  that  was  a 
woman  to  a  woman. 

"  I  shall  be  old  and  ugly  too  one  day,  and  I 
jehall  look  for  men's  chivalrous  help,  but  I  shall 
not  find  it. 

"  The  bees  are  very  attentive  to  the  flowers  till 
their  honey  is  done,  and  then  they  fly  over  them. 
I  don't  know  if  the  flowers  feel  grateful  to  the 
bees  ;  they  are  great  fools  if  they  do." 

"  But  some  women,"  said  Waldo,  speaking  as 
though  the  words  forced  themselves  from  him  at 
that  moment,  "  some  women  have  power." 

She  lifted  her  beautiful  eyes  to  his  face.  •      <*T\ 

"Power!  Did  you  ever  hear  of  men  being  I 
asked  whether  other  souls  should  have  power  or  | 
not  ?  It  is  born  in  them.  You  may  dam  up  the 
fountain  of  water,  and  make  it  a  stagnant  marsh, 
or  you  may  let  it  run  free  and  do  its  work ;  but 
you  cannot  say  whether  it  shall  be  there  ;  it  is 
there.  And  it  will  act,  if  not  openly  for  good,  then 
covertly  for  evil ;  but  it  will  act.  If  Goethe  had 
been  stolen  away  a  child,  and  reared  in  a  robbei 


234  THE  STORY  OF 

horde  in  the  depths  of  a  German  forest,  da  you 
think  the  world  would  have  had  '  Faust '  and  '  Iphe- 
genie  '  ?  But  he  would  have  been  Goethe  still — 
stronger,  wiser  than  his  fellows.  At  night,  round 
their  watch-fire,  he  would  have  chanted  wild  songs 
of  rapine  and  murder,  till  the  dark  faces  about 
him  were  moved  and  trembled.  His  songs  would 
have  echoed  on  from  father  to  son,  and  nerved 
the  heart  and  arm — for  evil.  Do  you  think  if 
Napoleon  had  been  born  a  woman  that  he  would 
have  been  contented  to  give  small  tea-parties  and 
talk  small  scandal  ?  He  would  have  risen ;  but 
the  world  would  not  have  heard  of  him  as  it  hears 
of  him  now — a  man  great  and  kingly,  with  all  his 
sins ;  he  would  have  left  one  of  those  names  that 
stain  the  leaf  of  every  history — the  names  of 
women,  who,  having  power,  but  being  denied  the 
right  to  exercise  it  openly,  rule  in  the  dark,  cov- 
ertly, and  by  stealth,  through  the  man  whose  pas- 
sions they  feed  on  and  by  whom  they  climb. 

"Power  !"  she  said  suddenly,  smiting  her  little 
hand  upon  the  rail.  "  Yes,  we  have  power  ;  and 
since  we  are  not  to  expend  it  in  tunneling  mount- 
ains, nor  healing  diseases,  nor  making  laws,  nor 
money,  nor  on  any  extraneous  object,  we  expend 
it  on  you.  You  are  our  goods,  our  merchandise, 
our  material  for  operating  on ;  we  buy  you,  we  , 
sell  you,  we  make  fools  of  you,  we  act  the  wily 
old  Jew  with  you,  we  keep  six  of  you  crawling  to 
our  little  feet,  and  praying  only  for  a  touch  of  our 
little  hand ;  and  they  say  truly,  there  was  never 
an  ache  or  pain  or  a  broken  heart  but  a  woman 
was  at  the  bottom  of  it.     We  are  not  to  study  law, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  235 

nor  science,  nor  art,  so  we  study  you.  There  is 
never  a  nerve  or  fiber  in  your  man's  nature  but  we 
know  it.  We  keep  six  of  you  dancing  in  the  palm 
of  one  little  hand,"  she  said,  balancing  her  out- 
stretched arm  gracefully,  as  though  tiny  beings 
disported  themselves  in  its  palm.  "  There— we 
throw  you  away,  and  you  sink  to  the  Devil,"  she 
said,  folding  her  arms  composedly.  "  There  was 
never  a  man  who  said  one  word  for  woman  but  he 
said  two  for  man  and  three  for  the  whole  human 
race." 

She  watched  the  bird  pecking  up  the  last  yellow 
grains  ;  but  Waldo  looked  only  at  her. 

When  she  spoke  again  it  was  very  measuredly. 
"They  bring  weighty  arguments  against  us 
when  we  ask  for  the  perfect  freedom  of  women," 
she  said  ;  "but  when  you  come  to  the  objections, 
they  are  like  pumpkin  devils  with  candles  inside, 
hollow,  and  can't  bite.  They  say  that  women  do 
not  wish  for  the  sphere  and  freedom  we  ask  for 
them,  and  would  not  use  it ! 

"  If  the  bird  does  like  its  cage,  and  does  like  its 
sugar  and  will  not  leave  it,  why  keep  the  door  so 
very  carefully  shut  ?  Why  not  open  it,  only  a 
little  ?  Do  they  know,  there  is  many  a  bird  will  not 
break  its  wings  against  the  bars,  but  would  fly  if  the 
doors  were  open."  She  knit  her  forehead,  and 
leaned  further  over  the  bars.  _         - 

"  Then  they  say,  '  If  the  women  have  the  liberty 
you  ask  for,  they  will  be  found  in  positions  for 
which  they  are  not  fitted  ! '  If  two  men  climb 
one  ladder,  did  you  ever  see  the  weakest  any- 
where but  at  the  foot  ?     The  surest  sign  of  fitness 


\ 


236  THE  STORY  OF 

is  success.  The  weakest  never  wins  but  where 
there  is  handicapping.  Nature,  left  to  -herself, 
will  as  beautifully  apportion  a  man's  work  to  his 
capacities  as  long  ages  ago  she  graduated  the 
colors  on  thebird's  breast.  If  we  are  not  fit  you 
give  us  to  no  purpose  the  right  to  labor ;  the  work 
will  fall  out  of  our  hands  into  those  that  are  wiser." 

She  talked  more  rapidly  as  she  went  on,  as 
one  talks  of  that  over  which  they  have  brooded 
long,  and  which  lies  near  their  hearts. 
*  Waldo  watched  her  intently. 

"  They  say  women  have  one  great  and  noble 
work  left  them,  and  they  do  it  ill.— That  is  true  , 
they  do  it  execrably.  It  is  the  work  that  demands 
the  broadest  culture,  and  they  have  not  even  the 
narrowest.  The  lawyer  may  see  no  deeper  than 
his  law-books,  and  the  chemist  see  no  further 
than  the  windows  of  his  laboratory,  and  they  may 
do  their  work  well.  But  the  woman  who  does 
woman's  work  needs  a  many-sided,  multiform 
culture  ;  the  heights  and  depths  of  human  life 
must  not  be  beyond  the  reach  of  her  vision  ;  she 
must  have  knowledge  of  men  and  things  in  many 
states,  a  wide  catholicity  of  sympathy,  the  strength 
that  springs  from  knowledge,  and  the  magnanimity 
which  springs  from  strength.  We  bear  the  world, 
and  we  make  it.  The  souls  of  little  children 
are  marvelously  delicate  and  tender  things,  and 
keep  forever  the  shadow  that  first  falls  on  them, 
and  that  is  the  mother's,  or  at  best  a  woman's. 
There  was  never  a  great  man  who  had  not  a  great 
mother — it  is  hardly  an  exaggeration.  The  first 
six  years  of  our  life  make  us ;  all  that  is  added 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  237 

later  is  veneer ;  and  yet  some  say,  if  a  woman 
can  cook  a  dinner  or  dress  herself  well  she  has 
culture  enough. 

"  The  mightiest  and  noblest  of  human  work  is 
given  to  us,  and  we  do  it  ill.  Send  a  navvie  to 
work  into  an  artist's  studio,  and  see  what  you 
will  find  there  !  And  yet,  thank  God,  we  have 
this  work,"  she  added  quickly  :  "  it  is  the  one 
window  through  which  we  see  into  the  great 
world  of  earnest  labor.  The  meanest  girlwho 
dances  and  dresses  becomes  something  higher 
when  her  children  look  up  into  her  face  and  ask 
her  questions.  It  is  the  only  education  we  have 
and  which  they  cannot  take  from  us." 

She  smiled  slightly.  "  They  say  that  we  com- 
plain of  woman's  being  compelled  to  look  upon 
marriage  as  a  profession ;  but  that  she  is  free 
to  ente°  upon  it  or  leave  it  as  she  pleases. 

«  Yes— and  a  cat  set  afloat  in  a  pond  is  free 
to  sit  in  the  tub  till  it  dies  there,  it  is  under  no 
obligation  to  wet  its  feet ;  and  a  drowning  man 
may  catch  at  a  straw  or  not,  just  as  he  likes — 
it  is  a  glorious  liberty  !  Let  any  man  think  for 
five  minutes  of  what  old  maidenhood  means  to 
a  woman— and  then  let  him  be  silent.  Is  it  easy 
to  bear  through  life  a  name  that  in  itself  signifies 
defeat  ?  to  dwell,  as  nine  out  of  ten  unmarried 
women  must,  under  the  finger  of  another  woman  ? 
Is  it  easy  to  look  forward  to  an  old  age  without 
honor,  without  the  reward  of  useful  labor,  without 
love  ?  I  wonder  how  many  men  there  are  who 
would  give  up  everything  that  is  dear  in  life  for 
the  sake  of  maintaining  a  high  ideal  purity  ?  " 


gj3  TAB  STORY  OF 

She  laughed  a  little  laugh  that  was  deaf  with- 
out being  pleasant.  "  And  then,  when  they  have 
no  other  argument  against  us,  they  say — '  Go  on  ; 
but  when  you  have  made  women  what  you  wish, 
and  her  children  inherit  her  culture,  you  will  de- 
feat yourself.  Man  will  gradually  become  extinct 
from  excess  of  intellect,  the  passions  which  re- 
plenish the  race  will  die.'  Fools  !  "  she  said, 
curling  her  pretty  lip.  "  A  Hottentot  sits  at  the 
road-side  and  feeds  on  a  rotten  bone  he  has  found 
there,  and  takes  out  his  bottle  of  Cape-smoke  and 
swills  at  it,  and  grunts  with  satisfaction ;  and  the 
cultured  child  of  the  nineteenth  century  sits  in 
his  arm-chair,  and  sips  choice  wines  with  the  lip 
of  a  connoisseur,  and  tastes  delicate  dishes  with 
a  delicate  palate,  and  with  a  satisfaction  of  which 
the  Hottentot  knows  nothing.  Heavy  jaw  and 
sloping  forehead — all  have  gone  with  increasing 
intellect ;  but  the  animal  appetites  are  there  still 
— refined,  discriminative,  but  immeasurably  in- 
tensified. Fools  !  Before  men  forgave  or  wor- 
shiped, while  they  still  were  weak  on  their  hind 
legs,  did  they  not  eat  and  drink,  and  fight  for 
wives  ?  When  all  the  later  additions  to  humanity 
have  vanished,  will  not  the  foundation  on  which 
they  are  built  remain  ? " 

She  was  silent  then  for  a  while,  and  said,  some- 
what dreamily,  more  as  though  speaking  to  her- 
self than  to  him, — 

"  They  ask,  What  will  you  gain,  even  if  man 
does  not  become  extinct  ? — you  will  have  brought 
justice  and  equality  on  to  the  earth,  and  sent  love 
from  it.     When  men  and  women  are  equals  they 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  239 

will  love  no  more.  Your  highly  cultured  women 
will  not  be  lovable,  will  not  love. 

"  Do  they  see  nothing,  understand  nothing  ? 
It  is  Tant'  Sannie  who  buries  husbands  one  after 
another,  and  folds  her  hands  resignedly — 'The 
Lord  gave,  and  the  Lord  hath  taken  away,  and 
blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord ' — and  she  looks 
for  another.  .  It  is  the  hard-headed,  deep  thinker 
who,  when  the  wife  who  has  thought  and  worked 
with  him  goes,  can  find  no  rest,  and  lingers  near 
her  till  he  finds  sleep  beside  her. 

"  A  great  soul  draws  and  is  drawn  with  a  more 
fierce  intensity  than  any  small  one.  By  every 
inch  we  grow  in  intellectual  height,  our  love  strikes 
down  its  roots  deeper,  and  spreads  out  its  arms 
wider.  It  is  for  love's  sake  yet  more  than  for  any 
other  that  we  look  for  that  new  time."  She  had 
leaned  her  head  against  the  stones,  and  watched 
with  her  sad,  soft  eyes  the  retreating  bird. 
"  Then  when  that  time  comes,"  she  said  lowly, 
"  when  love  is  no  more  bought  or  sold,  when  it  is 
not  a  means  of  making  bread,  when  each  woman's 
life  is  filled  with  earnest,  independent  labor,  then 
love  will  come  to  her,  a  strange  sudden  sweetness 
breaking  in  upon  her  earnest  work ;  not  soughc 
for,  but  found.     Then,  but  not  now " 

Waldo  waited  for  her  to  finish  the  sentence, 
but  she  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him. 

"  Lyndall,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  upon  her 
— she  started — ■"  if  you  think  that  that  new  time 
will  be  so  great,  so  good,  you  who  speak  so 
easily " 

She  interrupted  him. 


240  THE  STORY  OF 

te  Speak  !  speak  !  "  she  said ;  "  the  difficulty  is 
not  to  speak  ;  the  difficulty  is  to  keep  silence." 

"  But  why  do  you  not  try  to  bring  that  time  ?  " 
he  said  with  pitiful  simplicity.  "  When  you  speak 
I  believe  all  you  say ;  other  people  would  listen 
to  you  also." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  she  said  with  a 
smile. 

Then  over  the  small  face  came  the  weary  look 
it  had  worn  last  night  as  it  watched  the  shadow 
in  the  corner.     Ah,  so  weary ! 

"  I,  Waldo,  I  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  will  do  nothing 
good  for  myself,  nothing  for  the  world,  till  some- 
one wakes  me.  I  am  asleep,  swathed,  shut  up 
in  self ;  till  I  have  been  delivered  I  will  deliver 
no  one." 

He  looked  at  her  wondering,  but  she  was  not 
looking  at  him. 

"  To  see  the  good  and  the  beautiful,"  she  said, 
"  and  to  have  no  strength  to  live  it,  is  only  to  be 
Moses  on  the  mountain  of  Nebo,  with  the  land  at 
your  feet  and  no  power  to  enter.  It  would  be 
better  not  to  see  it.  Come,"  she  said,  looking  up 
into  his  face,  and  seeing  its  uncomprehending 
expression,  "  let  us  go,  it  is  getting  late.  Doss  is 
anxious  for  his  breakfast  also,"  she  added,  wheel- 
ing round  and  calling  to  the  dog,  who  was 
endeavoring  to  unearth  a  mole,  an  occupation  to 
which  he  had  been  zealously  addicted  from  the 
third  month,  but  in  which  he  had  never  on  any 
single  occasion  proved  successful. 

Waldo  shouldered  his  bag,  and  Lyndall  walked 
on  before  in  silence,  with  the   dog  close  to  her 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  241 

side.  Perhaps  she  thought  of  the  narrowness  of 
the  limits  within  which  a  human  soul  may  speak 
and  be  understood  by  its  nearest  of  mental  kin, 
of  how  soon  it  reaches  that  solitary  land  of  the 
individual  experience,  in  which  no  fellow-footfall 
is  ever  heard.  Whatever  her  thoughts  may  have 
been,  she  was  soon  interrupted.  Waldo  came 
close  to  her,  and  standing  still,  produced  with 
awkwardness  from  his  breast-pocket  a  small 
carved  box. 

"  I  made  it  for  you,"  he  said,  holding  it  out. 

"  I  like  it,"  she  said,  examining  it  carefully. 

The  workmanship  was  better  than  that  of  the 
gravepost.  The  flowers  that  covered  it  were 
delicate,  and  here  and  there  small  conical  pro- 
tuberances were  let  in  among  them.  She  turned 
it  around  critically.     Waldo  bent  over  it  lovingly. 

"  There  is  one  strange  thing  about  it,"  he  said 
earnestly,  putting  a  finger  on  one  little  pyramid. 
"  I  made  it  without  these,  and  I  felt  something 
was  wrong ;  I  tried  many  changes,  and  at  last  I 
let  these  in,  and  then  it  was  right.  But  why  was 
it?     They  are  not  beautiful  in  themselves." 

"They  relieve  the  monotony  of  the  smooth 
leaves,  I  suppose." 

He  shook  his  head  as  over  a  weighty  matter. 

"  The  sky  is  monotonous,"  he  said,  "  when  it 
is  blue,  and  yet  it  is  beautiful.  I  have  thought 
of  that  often  ;  but  it  is  not  monotony  and  it  is  not 
variety  makes  beauty.  What  is  it  ?  The  sky, 
and  your  face,  and  this  box — the  same  thing  is 
in  them  all,  only  more  in  the  sky  and  in  your  face. 
But  what  is  it  ?  " 
16 


242  THE  STORY  OF 

She  smiled. 

"  So  you  are  at  your  old  work  still.  Why,  why, 
why  ?  What  is  the  reason  ?  It  is  enough  for  me," 
she  said,  "  if  I  find  out  what  is  beautiful  and  what 
is  ugly,  what  is  real  and  what  is  not.  Why  it  is 
there,  and  over  the  final  eause  of  things  in  general 
I  don't  trouble  myself ;  there  must  be  one,  but 
what  is  it  to  me  ?  If  I  howl  to  all  eternity  I 
shall  never  get  hold  of  it ;  and  if  I  did  I  might  be 
no  better  off.  But  you  Germans  are  born  with  an 
aptitude  for  burrowing ;  you  can't  help  yourselves. 
You  must  sniff  after  reasons,  just  as  that  dog  must 
after  a  mole.  He  knows  perfectly  well  he  will 
never  catch  it,  but  he's  under  the  imperative 
necessity  of  digging  for  it." 

"  But  he  might  find  it." 

"Might!—  but  he  never  will.  Life  is  too 
short  to  run  after  mights  ;  we  must  have  certain- 
ties." 

She  tucked  the  box  under  her  arm  and  was 
about  to  walk  on,  when  Gregory  Rose,  with  shin- 
ing spurs,  an  ostrich  feather  in  his  hat,  and  a 
silver-headed  whip,  careered  past.  He  bowed 
gallantly  as  he  went  by.  They  waited  till  the 
dust  of  the  horse's  hoofs  had  laid  itself. 

"  There,"  said  Lyndall,  "  goes  a  true  woman — • 
/one  born  for  the  sphere  that  some  women  have 
to  fill  without  being  born  for  it.  How  happy  he 
would  be  sewing  frills  into  his  little  girl's  frocks, 
and  how  pretty  he  would  look  sitting  -in  a  parlor, 
with  a  rough  man  making  love  to  him  !  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 
\jy  '*  I  shall  not  stay  here  when  he  is  master," 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  243 

Waldo  answered,  not  able  to  connect  any  kind  of 
beauty  with  Gregory  Rose. 

"  I  should  imagine  not.  The  rule  of  a  woman 
is  tyranny  ;  but  the  rule  of  a  man-woman  grinds 
fine.     Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  Anywhere." 

"What  to  do?" 

"  See — see  everything." 

"  You  will  be  disappointed." 

"  And  were  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  you  will  be  more  so.  I  want  some 
things  that  men  and  the  world  give,  you  do  not. 
If  you  have  a  few  yards  of  earth  to  stand  on,  and 
a  bit  of  blue  over  you,  and  something  that  you 
cannot  see  to  dream  about,  you  have  all  that  you 
need,  all  that  you  know  how  to  use.  But  I  like 
to  see  real  men.  Let  them  be  as  disagreeable  as 
they  please,  they  are  more  interesting  to  me  than 
flowers,  or  trees,  or  stars,  or  any  other  thing 
under  the  sun.  Sometimes,"  she  added,  walking 
on,  and  shaking  the  dust  daintily  from  her  skirts, 
"  when  I  am  not  too  busy  trying  to  find  a  new 
way  of  doing  my  hair  that  will  show  my  little  neck 
to  better  advantage,  or  over  other  work  of  that 
kind,  sometimes  it  amuses  me  intensely  to  trace 
out  the  resemblance  between  one  man  and  an- 
other :  to  see  how  Tant'  Sannie  and  I,  you  and 
Bonaparte,  St.  Simon  on  his  pillar,  and  the 
Emperor  dining  off  larks'  tongues,  are  one  and 
the  same  compound,  merely  mixed  in  different 
proportions.  What  is  microscopic  in  one  is 
largely  developed  in  another  ;  what  is  a  rudimen- 
tary in  one  man  is  an  active   organ  in   another  j 


244  THE  STORY  OF 

but  all  things  are  in  all  men,  and  one  soul  is  the 
model  of  all.  We  shall  find  nothing  new  in 
human  nature  after  we  have  once  carefully  dis- 
sected and  analyzed  the  one  being  we  ever  shall 
truly  know — ourself.  The  Kaffir  girl  threw  some 
coffee  on  my  arm  in  bed  this  morning;  I  felt  dis- 
pleased, but  said  nothing,  Tant'  Sannie  would 
have  thrown  the  saucer  at  her  and  sworn  for  an 
hour  ;  but  the  feeling  would  be  the  same  irritated 
displeasure.  If  a  huge  animated  stomach  like 
Bonaparte  were  put  under  a  glass  by  a  skillful 
mental  microscopist,  even  he  would  be  found  to 
have  an  embryonic  doubling  somewhere  indicative 
of  a  heart,  and  rudimentary  buddings  that  might 
have  become  conscience  and  sincerity. — Let  me 
take  your  arm,  Waldo.  How  full  you  are  of 
mealie  dust. — No,  never  mind.  It  will  brush  off. 
— And  sometimes  what  is  more  amusing  still  than 
tracing  the  likeness  between  man  and  man,  is  to 
trace  the  analogy  there  always  is  between  the 
progress  and  development  of  one  individual  and 
of  a  whole  nation  ;  or  again,  between  a  single 
nation  and  the  entire  human  race.  It  is  pleasant 
when  it  dawns  on  you  that  the  one  is  just  the 
other  written  ou.t  in  large  letters ;  and  very  odd 
to  find  all  the  little  follies  and  virtues,  and  develop- 
ments and  retrogressions,  written  out  in  the  big 
world's  book  that  you  find  in  your  little  internal 
self.  It  is  the  most  amusing  thing  I  know  of ; 
but  of  course,  being  a  woman,  I  have  not  often 
time  for  such  amusements.  Professional  duties 
always  first,  you  know.  It  takes  a  great  deal  of 
time    and   thought   always   to  look  perfectly  ex- 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


245 


quisite,  even  for  a  pretty  woman.  Is  the  old 
buggy  still  in  existence,  Waldo  ? " 

"  Yes ;  but  the  harness  is  broken." 

"  Well,  I  wish  you  would  mend  it.  You  must 
teach  me  to  drive.  I  must  learn  something  while 
I  am  here.  I  got  the  Hottentot  girl  to  show  me 
how  to  make  *  sarsarties '  this  morning ;  and  Tant' 
Sannie  is  going  to  teach  me  to  make  '  kapjes.' 
I  will  come  and  sit  with  you  this  afternoon  while 
you  mend  the  harness." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  No,  don't  thank  me ;  I  come  for  my  own 
pleasure.  I  never  find  any  one  I  can  talk  to. 
Women  bore  me,  and  men,  I  talk  so  to — '  Going 
to  the  ball  this  evening  ? — Nice  little  dog  that  of 
yours. — Pretty  little  ears. — So  fond  of  pointer 
pups ! ' — And  they  think  me  fascinating,  charm- 
ing! Men  are  like  the  earth  and  we  are  the 
moon  ;  we  turn  always  one  side  to  them,  and  they 
think  there  is  no  other,  because  they  don't  see  it 
■ — but  there  is." 

They  had  reached  the  house  now. 

"  Tell  me  when  you  set  to  work,"  she  said  and 
walked  toward  the  door. 

Waldo  stood  to  look  after  her,  and  Doss  stood 
at  his  side,  a  look  of  painful  uncertainty  depicted 
on  his  small  countenance,  and  one  little  foot 
poised  in  the  air.  Should  he  stay  with  his  master 
or  go  ?  He  looked  at  the  figure  with  the  wide 
straw  hat  moving  toward  the  house,  and  he  looked 
up  at  his  master ;  then  he  put  down  the  little  paw 
and  went.  Waldo  watched  them  both  in  at  the 
door  and  then  walked  away  alone.  He  was  satis- 
fied that  at  lea^his  dog  was  with  her. 


246  THE  STORY  OF 


CHAPTER  V. 

TANT*  SANNIE  HOLDS  AN  UPSITTING,  AND  GREGORY 
WRITES  A  LETTER. 

It  was  just  after  sunset,  and  Lyndall  had  not 
yet  returned  from  her  first  driving-lesson,  when 
the  lean  colored  woman  standing  at  the  corner  of 
the  house  to  enjoy  the  evening  breeze,  saw  com- 
ing along  the  road  a  strange  horseman.  Very  nar- 
rowly she  surveyed  him,  as  slowly  he  approached. 
He  was  attired  in  the  deepest  mourning,  the 
black  crape  round  his  tall  hat  totally  concealing 
the  black  felt,  and  nothing  but  a  dazzling  shirt- 
front  relieving  the  funereal  tone  of  his  attire.  He 
rode  much  forward  in  his  saddle,  with  his  chin 
resting  on  the  uppermost  of  his  shirt-studs,  and 
there  was  an  air  of  meek  subjection  to  the  will 
of  Heaven,  and  to  what  might  be  in  store  for  him, 
that  bespoke  itself  even  in  the  way  in  which  he 
gently  urged  his  steed.  He  was  evidently  in  no 
hurry  to  reach  his  destination,  for  the  nearer  he 
approached  to  it  the  slacker  did  his  bridle  hang. 
The  colored  woman  having  duly  inspected  him, 
dashed  into  the  dwelling. 

"  Here  is  another  one,"  she  cried — "  a  widower ; 
I  see  it  by  his  hat." 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Tant'  Sannie  ;  "it's  the 
seventh  I've  had  this  month ;  but  the  men  know 
where  sheep  and  good  looks  and  money  in  the 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  247 

bank  are  to  be  found,"  she  added,  winking  know- 
ingly.    "  How  does  he  look  ?  " 

"  Nineteen,  weak  eyes,  white  hair,  little  round 
nose,"  said  the  maid. 

"  Then  it's  he  !  then  it's  he  !  "  said  Tant'  Sannie 
triumphantly  :  "  Little  Piet  Vander  Walt,  whose 
wife  died  last  month — two  farms,  twelve  thousand 
sheep.  I've  not  seen  him,  but  my  sister-in-law 
told  me  about  him,  and  I  dreamed  about  him  last 
night." 

Here  Piet's  black  hat  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
and  the  Boer-woman  drew  herself  up  in  dignified 
silence,  extended  the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and 
motioned  solemnly  to  a  chair.  The  young  man 
seated  himself,  sticking  his  feet  as  far  under  it  as 
they  would  go,  and  said  mildly  : 

"  I  am  Little  Piet  Vander  Walt,  and  my  father 
is  Big  Piet  Vander  Walt." 

Tant'  Sannie  said  solemnly,  "  Yes." 

"  Aunt,"  said  the  young  man,  starting  up  spas- 
modically, "  can  I  off-saddle  ? " 

"Yes." 

He  seized  his  hat,  and  disappeared  with  a  rush 
through  the  door. 

"  I  told  you  so  !  I  knew  it !  "  said  Tant'  San- 
nie. "  The  dear  Lord  doesn't  send  dreams  for 
nothing.  Didn't  I  tell  you  this  morning  that  1 
dreamed  of  a  great  beast  like  a  sheep,  with  red 
eyes,  and  I  killed  it  ?  Wasn't  the  white  wool  his 
hair,  and  the  red  eyes  his  weak  eyes,  and  my  killing 
him  meant  marriage  ?  Get  supper  ready  quickly . 
the  sheep's  inside  and  roaster-cakes.  We  shall 
sit  up  to-night," 


248  THE  STORY  OF 

To  young  Piet  Vander  Walt  that  supper  was  a 
period  of  intense  torture.  There  was  something 
overawing  in  that  assembly  of  English  people, 
with  their  incomprehensible  speech  ;  and  more- 
over, it  was  his  first  courtship  :  his  first  wife  had 
courted  him,  and  ten  months  of  severe  domestic- 
rule  had  not  raised  his  spirit  nor  courage.  He  ate 
little,  and  when  he  raised  a  morsel  to  his  lips 
glanced  guiltily  round  to  see  if  he  were  not  ob- 
served. He  had  put  three  rings  on  his  little 
finger,  with  the  intention  of  sticking  it  out  stiffly 
when  he  raised  a  coffee-cup  ;  now  the  little  finger 
was  curled  miserably  among  its  fellows.  It  was 
small  relief  when  the  meal  was  over,  and  Tant' 
Sannie  and  he  repaired  to  the  front  room.  Once 
seated  there,  he  set  his  knees  close  together,  stood 
his  black  hat  upon  them,  and  wretchedly  turned 
the  brim  up  and  down.  But  supper  had  cheered 
Tant'  Sannie,  who  found  it  impossible  longer  to 
maintain  that  decorous  silence,  and  whose  heart 
yearned  over  the  youth. 

"  I  was  related  to  your  aunt  Selina  who  died," 
said  Tant'  Sannie.  "  My  mother's  step-brother's 
child  was  married  to  her  father's  brother's  step 
nephew's  niece." 

"  Yes,  aunt,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  knew 
we  were  related." 

"  It  was  her  cousin,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  now 
fairly  on  the  flow,  "who  had  the  cancer  cut  out 
of  her  breast  by  the  other  doctor,  who  was  not 
the  right  doctor  they  sent  for,  but  who  did  it 
quite  as  well." 

"  Yes,  aunt,"  said  the  young  man. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  249 

0  I've  heard  about  it  often,"  said  Tant'  Sannie. 
"  And  he  was  the  son  of  the  old  doctor  that  they 
say  died  on  Christmas  Day;  but  I  don't  know  if 
that's  true.  People  do  tell  such  awful  lies.  Why 
should  he  die  on  Christmas  Day  more  than  any 
other  day  ? " 

"*Yes,  aunt,  why?"  said  the  young  man, 
meekly. 

"  Did  you  ever  have  the  toothache  ? "  asked 
Tant'  Sannie. 

"  No,  aunt." 

"  Well,  they  say  that  doctor, — not  the  son  of 
the  old  doctor  that  died  on  Christmas  Day,  the 
other  that  didn't  come  when  he  was  sent  for — 
he  gave  such  good  stuff  for  the  toothache  that  if 
you  opened  the  bottle  in  the  room  where  any  one 
was  bad  they  got  better  directly.  You  could  see 
it  was  good  stuff,"  said  Tant'  Sannie  :  "  it  tasted 
horrid.  That  was  a  real  doctor !  He  used  to 
give  a  bottle  so  high,"  said  the  Boer-woman,  rais- 
ing her  hand  a  foot  from  the  table,  "  you  could 
drink  at  it  for  a  month  and  it  wouldn't  get  done, 
and  the  same  medicine  was  good  for  all  sorts  of 
sicknesses — croup,  measles,  jaundice,  dropsy. 
Now  you  have  to  buy  a  new  kind  for  each  sick- 
ness. The  doctors  aren't  so  good  as  they  used 
to  be." 

"  No,  aunt,"  said  the  young  man,  who  was  try- 
ing to  gain  courage  to  stick  out  his  legs  and  clink 
his  spurs  together.     He  did  so  at  last. 

Tant'  Sannie  had  noticed  the  spurs  before; 
but  she  thought  it  showed  a  nice  manly  spirit, 
and  her  heart  warmed  yet  more  to  the  youth. 


2$o  THE  STORY  OF 

"Did  you  ever  have  convulsions  when  you 
were  a  baby  ? "  asked  Tant'  Sannie! 

"  Yes,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Strange  !  "  said  Tant'  Sannie  ;  "  I  had  con- 
vulsions too.  Wonderful  that  we  should  be  so 
much  alike  !  " 

"  Aunt,"  said  the  young  man,  explosively,  "  can 
we  sit  up  to-night  ?  " 

Tant'  Sannie  hung  her  head  and  half  closed  her 
eyes  ;  but  finding  that  her  little  wiles  were  thrown 
away,  the  young  man  staring  fixedly  at  his  hat, 
she  simpered  "Yes,"  and  went  away  to  fetch 
candles. 

In  the  dining-room  Em  worked  at  her  machine, 
and  Gregory  sat  close  beside  her,  his  great  blue 
eyes  turned  to  the  window  where  Lyndall  leaned 
out  talking  to  Waldo. 

Tant'  Sannie  took  two  candles  out  of  the  cup- 
board and  held  them  up  triumphantly,  winking 
all  round  the  room. 

"  He's  asked  for  them,"  she  said. 

"  Does  he  want  them  for  his  horse's  rubbed 
back  ?  "  asked  Gregory,  new  to  up-country  life. 

"  No,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  indignantly  ;  "  we're 
going  to  sit  up  !  "  and  she  walked  ^off  in  triumph 
with  the  candles. 

Nevertheless,  when  all  the  rest  of  the  house 
had  retired,  when  the  long  candle  was  lighted, 
when  the  coffee-kettle  was  filled,  when  she  sat  in 
the  elbow-chair,  with  her  lover  on  a  chair 
close  beside  her,  and  when  the  vigil  of  the  night 
was  fairly  begun,  she  began  to  find  it  wearisome. 
The  young  man  looked  chilly,  and  said  nothing. 


AN  AFRICAN  Mm  HI 

«  Won't  you  put  your  feet  on  my  stove  ? "  said 
Tant'  Sannie.  ,     , 

"  No,  thank  you,  aunt,"  said  the  young  man, 
and  both  lapsed  into  silence.  m 

At  last  Tant'  Sannie,  afraid  of  going  to  sleep, 
tapped  a  strong  cup  of  coffee  for  herself  and 
handed  another  to  her  lover.  This  visibly  re- 
vived  both.  „ 

"  How  long  were  you  married,  cousin  i 

"Ten  months,  aunt."" 

"  How  old  was  your  baby  ? " 

"  Three  days  when  it  died." 

"  It's  very  hard  when  we  must  give  our  hus- 
bands and  wives  to  the  Lord,"  said  Tant' Sannie. 

"  Very,"  said  the  young  man ;  but  it  s  tne 
Lord's  will."  .  ,    .  ,     , 

"  Yes,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  and  sighed. 

«  She  was  such  a  good  wife,  aunt  :>  I've  known 
her  to  break  a  churn-stick  over  a  maid  s  head  tor 
only  letting  dust  come  on  a  milk-cloth." 

Tant'  Sannie  felt  a  twinge  of  jealousy.  She 
had  never  broken  a  churn-stick  on  a  maid  s  head. 

"  I  hope  your  wife  made  a  good  end,"  she  said. 
"  Oh,  beautiful,  aunt :  she  said  up  a  psalm  and 
two  hymns  and  a  half  before  she  died." 

"Did  she  leave  any  messages?      asked  I  ant 

"No,"  said  the  young  man;  "but  the  night 
before  she  died  I  was  lying  at  the  foot  of  her 
bed ;  I  felt  her  foot  kick  me. 

"  «  Piet,'  she  said. 

"  *  Annie,  my  heart,'  said  I. 

"'My   little    baby   that    died    yesterday  has 


252  THE  STORY  OF 

been  here,  and  it  stood  over  the  wagon-box/  she 
said. 

"  '  What  did  it  say  ? '  I  asked. 

"  '  It  said  that  if  I  died  you  must  marry  a  fat 
woman." 

"  '  I  will,'  I  said,  and  I  went  to  sleep  again. 
Presently  she  woke  me. 

"  '  The  little  baby  has  been  here  again,  and  it 
says  you  must  marry  a  woman  over  thirty,  and 
who's  had  two  husbands.' 

_  "  I  didn't  go  to  sleep  after  that  for  a  long 
time,  aunt ;  but  when  I  did  she  woke  me. 

"  '  The  baby  has  been  here  again,'  she  said, '  and 
it  says  you  mustn't  marry  a  woman  with  a  mole.' 
I  told  her  I  wouldn't,  and  the  next  day  she  died." 

"  That  was  a  vision  from  the  Redeemer,"  said 
Tant'  Sannie. 

The  young  man  nodded  his  head  mournfully. 
He  thought  of  a  younger  sister  of  his  wife's  who 
was  not  fat,  and  who  had  a  mole,  and  of  whom 
his  wife  had  always  been  jealous,  and  he  wished 
the  little  baby  b&d  liked  better  staying  in  heaven 
than  coming  and  standing  over  the  wagon-chest. 

"  I  suppose  that's  why  you  came  to  .me,"  said 
Tant'  Sannie. 

_.  "  Yes,  aunt.  And  pa  said  I  ought  to  get  mar- 
ried before  shearing-time.  It  is  bad  if  there's  no 
one  to  see  after  things  then  ;  and  the  maids  waste 
such  a  lot  of  fat." 

"  When  do  you  want  to  get  married  ? " 

"  Nex,t  month,  aunt,"  said  the  young  man  in  a 
tone  of  hopeless  resignation.  "  May  I  kiss  you, 
aunt?"  J 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


2SZ 


"  Fie  !  fie  !  "  said  Tant'  Sannie,  and  then  gave 
him  a  resounding  kiss.  "  Come,  draw  your  chair 
a  little  closer,"  she  said,  and,  their  elbows  now 
touching,  they  sat  on  through  the  night. 

The  next  morning  at  dawn,  as  Em  passed 
through  Tant'  Sannie's  bedroom,  she  found  the 
Boer-woman  pulling  off  her  boots  preparatory  to 
climbing  into  bed. 

"  Where  is  Piet  Vander  Walt  ? " 

"  Just  gone,"  said  Tant'  Sannie ;  "  and  I  am 
going  to  marry  him  this  day  four  weeks.  I  am 
dead  sleepy,"  she  added ;  "  the  stupid  thing 
doesn't  know  how  to  talk  love-talk  at  all,"  and  she 
climbed  into  the  four-poster,  clothes  and  all,  and 
drew  the  quilt  up  to  her  chin. 

On  the  day  preceding  Tant'  Sannie's  wedding, 
Gregory  Rose  sat  in  the  blazing  sun  on  the  stone 
wall  behind  his  daub-and-wattle  house.  It  was 
warm,  but  he  was  intently  watching  a  small  buggy 
that  was  being  recklessly  driven  over  the  bushes 
in  the  direction  of  the  farm-house.  Gregory 
never  stirred  till  it  had  vanished  ;  then,  finding 
the  stones  hot,  he  slipped  down  and  walked  into 
the  house.  He  kicked  the  little  pail  that  lay  in 
the  doorway,  and  sent  it  into  one  corner  ;  that  did 
him  good.  Then  he  s  t  down  on  the  box,  and 
began  cutting  letters  out  of  a  piece  of  newspaper. 
Finding  that  the  snippings  littered  the  floor,  he 
picked  them  up  and  began  scribbling  on  his  blot- 
ting-paper. He  tried  the  effect  of  different  in- 
itials before  the  name  Rose  :  G.  Rose,  E.  Rose, 
L.  Rose,  L.  Rose,  L.  L.  L.  L.  Rose.     When  he 


254  THE  STORY  OF 

had  covered  the  sheet,  he  looked  at  it  discon- 
tentedly a  little  while,  then  suddenly  began  to 
write  a  letter. 

"  Beloved  Sister, 

"  It  is  a  long  while  since  I  last  wrote  to  you,  but 
I  have  had  no  time.  This  is  the  first  morning  I 
have  been  at  home  since  I  don't  know  when. 
Em  always  expects  me  to  go  down  to  the  farm- 
house in  the  morning ;  but  I  didn't  feel  as  though 
I  could  stand  the  ride  to-day. 

"  I  have  much  news  for  you. 

"  'Tant'  Sannie,  Em's  Boer  step-mother,  is  to  be 
married  to-morrow.  She  is  gone  to  town  to-day, 
and  the  wedding  feast  is  to  be  at  her  brother's 
farm.  Em  and  I  are  going  to  ride  over  on  horse- 
back, but  her  cousin  is  going  to  ride  in  the  buggy 
with  that  German.  I  don't  think  I've  written  to 
you  since  she  came  back  from  school.  I  don't 
think  you  would  like  her  at  all,  Jemima ;  there's 
something  so  proud  about  her.  She  thinks  just 
because  she's  handsome  there's  nobody  good 
enough  to  talk  to  her,  and  just  as  if  there  had  no* 
body  else  but  her  been  to  boarding-school  before. 

"  They  are  going  to  have  a  grand  affair  to- 
morrow :  all  the  Boers  about  are  coming,  and 
they  are  going  to  dance  all  night;  but  I  don't 
think  I  shall  dance  at  all ;  for,  as  Em's  cousin 
says,  these  Boer  dances  are  low  things.  I  am 
sure  I  only  danced  at  the  last  to  please  Em.  I 
don't  know  why  she  is  fond  of  daicing.  Em 
talked  of  our  being  married  on  the  same  day  as 
Tant'  Sannie ;  but  I  said  it  would  be  nicer  fox 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  255 

her  if  she  waited  till  the  shearing  was  over,  and 
I  took  her  down  to  see  you.  I  suppose  she  will 
have  to  live  with  us  (Em's  cousin,  I  mean),  as 
she  has  not  anything  in  the  world  but  a  poor  fifty 
pounds.  I  don't  like  her  at  all,  Jemima,  and  I 
don't  think  you  would.  She's  got  such  queer 
ways  :  she's  always  driving  about  in  a  gig  with 
that  low  German  ;  and  I  don't  think  it's  at  all 
the  thing  for  a  woman  to  be  going  about  with  a 
man  she's  not  engaged  to.  Do  you  ?  If  it  was 
me  now,  of  course,  who  am  a  kind  of  connection, 
it  would  be  different.  The  way  she  treats  me, 
considering  that  I  am  so  soon  to  be  her  cousin, 
is  not  at  all  nice.  I  took  down  my  album  the  other 
day  with  your  likenesses  in^it,  and  I  told  her  she 
could  look  at  it,  and  put  it  down  close  to  her ; 
but  she  just  said,  Thank  you,  and  never  even 
touched  it,  as  much  as  to  say — What  are  your 
relations  to  me  ? 

"  She  gets  the  wildest  horses  in  that  buggy, 
and  a  horrid  snappish  little  cur  belonging  to  the 
German  sitting  in  front,  and  then  she  drives  out 
alone.  I  don't  think  it's  at  all  proper  for  a 
woman  to  drive  out  alone  ;  I  wouldn't  allow  it  if  she 
was  my  sister.  The  other  morning,  I  don't  know 
how  it  happened,  I  was  going  in  the  way  from 
which  she  was  coming,  and  that  little  beast — they 
call  him  Doss — began  to  bark  when  he  saw  me 
— he  always  dtfes,  the  little  wretch — and  the 
horses  began  to  spring,  and  kicked  the  splash- 
board all  to  pieces.  It  was  a  sight  to  see. 
Jemima !  She  has  got  the  littlest  hands  I  ever 
saw— I  could  hold  them  both  in  one  of  mine,  and 


2^6  THE  STORY  OF 

not  know  that  I'd  got  anything  except  that  they 
were  so  soft ;  but  she  held  those  horses  in  as 
though  they  were  made  of  iron.  When  I  wanted 
to  help  her  she  said>  '  No,  thank  you  ;  I  can  man- 
age  them  myself.  I've  got  a  pair  of  bits  that 
would  break  their  jaws  if  I  used  them  well,'  and 
she  laughed  and  drove  away.  It's  so  unwomanly. 
"  Tell  father  my  hire  of  the  ground  will  not 
be  out  for  six  months,  and  before  that  Em  and  I 
will  be  married.  My  pair  of  birds  is  breeding 
now,  but  I  haven't  been  down  to  see  them  for 
three  days.  I  don't  seem  to  care  about  anything 
any  more.  I  don't  know  what  it  is  :  I'm  not 
well.  If  I  go  into  town  on  Saturday  I  will  let 
the  doctor  examine  me ;  but  perhaps  she'll  go  in 
herself.  It's  a  very  strange  thing,  Jemima,  but 
she  never  will  send  her  letters  to  post  by  me.  If 
I  ask  her  she  has  none,  and  the  very  next  day 
che  goes  in  and  posts  them  herself.  You  mustn'f 
say  anything  about  it,  Jemima,  but  twice  I've 
brought  her  letters  from  the  post  in  a  gentleman's 
hand,  and  I'm  sure  they  were  both  from  the  same 
person,  because  I  noticed  every  little  mark,  even 
the  dotting  of  the  ts.  Of  course  it's  nothing  to 
vie:  but  for  Em's  sake  I  can't  help  feeling  an 
interest  in  her,  however  much  I  may  dislike  her 
myself ;  and  I  hope  she's  up  to  nothing.  I  pity 
the  man  who  marries  her  ;  I  wouldn't  be  him  for 
anything.  If  I  had  a  wife  with  pride  I'd  make 
her  give  it  up,  sharp.  I  don't  believe  in  a  man 
who  can't  make  a  woman  obey  him.  Now  Em — ■ 
I'm  very  fond  of  her,  as  you  know — but  if  I  tell 
her  to  put  on  a  certain  dress,  that  dress  she  puts 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  257 

on ;  and  if  I  tell  her  to  sit  on  a  certain  seat,  on 
that  seat  she  sits  ;  and  if  I  tell  her  not  to  speak 
to  a  certain  individual,  she  does  not  speak  to 
them.  If  a  man  lets  a  woman  do  what  he  doesn't 
like  he's  a  muff. 

"Give  my  love  to  mother  and  the  children. 
The  *  veld '  here  is  looking  pretty  good,  and  the 
sheep  are  better  since  we  washed  them.  Tell 
father  the  dip  he  recommended  is  very  good. 

"  Em  sewds  her  love  to  you.  She  is  making 
me  some  woolen  shirts ;  but  they  don't  fit  me  so 
nicely  as  those  mother  made  me. 

"  Write  soon  to 

"  Your  loving  brother, 

"  Gregory. 

"  P.  S. — She  drove  past  just  now ;  I  was  sitting 
on  the  kraal  wall  right  before  her  eyes,  and  she 
never  even  bowed. 

"G.  N.  R." 

CHAPTER  VI. 

A    BOER-WEDDING. 

"I  didn't  know  before  you  were  so  fond  of 
riding  hard,"  said  Gregory  to  his  little  betrothed. 

They  were  cantering  slowly  on  the  road  to  Oom 
Muller's  on  the  morning  of  the  wedding. 

"  Do  you  call  this  riding  hard  ? "  asked  Em  in 
some  astonishment. 

"  Of  course  I  do !  It's  enough  to  break  the 
horses'  necks,  and  knock  one  up  for  U12  whole 
*7 


258  THE  STORY  OF 

day  besides,"  he  added  testily ;  then  twisted  his 
head  to  look  at  the  buggy  that  came  on  behind. 
"  I  thought  Waldo  was  such  a  mad  driver ;  they 
are  taking  it  easily  enough  to-day,' '  said  Gregory. 
"  One  would  think  the  black  stallions  were  lame." 

"  I  suppose  they  want  to  keep  out  of  our  dust," 
said  Ein.  "  See,  they  stand  still  as  soon  as  we 
do." 

Perceiving  this  to  be  the  case,  Gregory  rode  on. 

"  It's  all  that  horse  of  yours :  she  kicks  up 
such  a  confounded  dust,  I  can't  stand  it  myself," 
he  said. 

Meanwhile  the  cart  came  on  slowly  enough. 

"  Take  the  reins,"  said  Lyndall,  "  and  make 
them  walk.  I  want  to  rest  and  watch  their  hoofs 
to-day — not  to  be  exhilarated ;  I  am  so  tired." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  corner,  and  Waldo  drove 
on  slowly  in  the  gray  dawn  light  along  the  level 
road.  They  passed  the  very  milk-bush  behind 
which  so  many  years  before  the  old  German  had 
found  the  Kaffir  woman.  But  their  thoughts  were 
not  with  him  that  morning :  they  were  the  thoughts 
of  the  young,  that  run  out  to  meet  the  future,  and 
labor  in  the  present.     At  last  he  touched  her  arm. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  feared  you  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  might  be 
jolted  out,"  he  said  ;  "  you  sat  so  quietly." 

"  No  ;  do  not  talk  to  me  ,  I  am  not  asleep  ;  " 
but  after  a  time  she  said  suddenly,  "  It  must  be  a 
terrible  thing  to  bring  a  human  being  into  the 
world." 

Waldo  looked  round  ;  she  sat  drawn  into  the 
corner,  her  blue  cloud  wound  tightly  about  her, 
and  she  still  watched  the  horses'  feet.     Having 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  259 

no  comment  to  offer  on  her  somewhat  unexpected 
remark,  he  merely  touched  up  his  horses. 

"  I  have  no  conscience,  none,"  she  added ;  "  but 
I  would  not  like  to  bring  a  soul  into  this  world. 
When  it  sinned  and  when  it  suffered  something 
like  a  dead  hand  would  fall  on  me, — '  You  did 
it,  you,  for  your  own  pleasure  you  created  this 
thing  !  See  your  work ! '  If  it  lived  to  be  eighty 
it  would  always  hang  like  a  mill-stone  round  my 
neck,  have  the  right  to  demand  good  from  me, 
and  curse  me  for  its  sorrow.  A  parent  is  only 
like  to  God :  if  His  work  turns  out  bad  so  much 
the  worse  for  Him  ;  He  dare  not  wash  His  hands 
of  it.  Time  and  years  can  never  bring  the  day 
when  you  can  say  to  your  child,  *  Soul,  what  have 
I  to  do  with  you  ? '  " 

Waldo  said  dreamily : 

"  It  is  a  marvelous  thing  that  one  soul  should 
have  power  to  cause  another." 

She  heard  the  words  as  she  heard  the  beating 
of  the  horses'  hoofs ;  her  thoughts  ran  on  in  their 
own  line. 

"  They  say,  '  God  sends  the  little  babies/  Of 
all  the  dastardly  revolting  lies  men  tell  to  suit 
themselves,  I  hate  that  most.  I  suppose  my 
father  said  so  when  he  knew  he  was  dying  of  con- 
sumption, and  my  mother  when  she  knew  she  had 
nothing  to  support  me  on,  and  they  created  me 
to  feed  like  a  dog  from  stranger  hands.  Men  do 
not  say  God  sends  the  books,  or  the  newspaper 
\rticles,  or  the  machines  they  make ;  and  then 
sigh,  and  shrug  their  shoulders,  and  say  they  can't 
*elp  it.    Why  do  they  say  so  about  other  things  f 


260  THE  STORY  OF 

Liars  !  '  God  sends  the  little  babies  !  '  "  She 
struck  her  foot  fretfully  against  the  splash-board. 
"  The  •  small  children  say  so  earnestly.  They 
touch  the  little  stranger  reverently  who  had  just 
come  from  God's  far  country,  and  they  peep  about 
the  room  to  see  if  not  one  white  feather  has  dropped 
from  the  wing  of  the  angel  that  brought  him.  On 
their  lips  the  phrase  means  much  ;  on  all  others  it 
is  &  deliberate  lie.  Noticeable  too,"  she  said,  drop- 
ping in  an  instant  from  the  passionate  into  a  low, 
mocking  tone,  "  when  people  are  married,  though 
they  should  have  sixty  children,  they  throw  the 
whole  onus  on  God.  When  they  are  not,  we  hear 
nothing  about  God's  having  sent  them.  When 
there  has  been  no  legal  contract  between  the 
parents,  who  sends  the  little  children  then  ?  The 
Devil  perhaps  !  "  she  laughed  her  little  silvery, 
mocking  laugh.  "  Odd  that  some  men  should  come 
from  hell  and  some  from  heaven,  and  yet  all  look 
so  much  alike  when  they  get  here." 

Waldo  wondered  at  her.  He  had  not  the  key 
to  her  thoughts,  and  did  not  see  the-  string  on 
which  they  were  strung.  She  drew  her  cloud 
tightly  about  her. 

"  It  must  be  very  nice  to  believe  in  the  Devil," 
she  said  ;  "  I  wish  I  did.  If  it  would  be  of  any 
use  I  would  pray  three  hours  night  and  morning 
on  my  bare  knees,  '  God,  let  me  believe  in  Satan.' 
He  is  so  useful  to  those  people  who  do.  They 
may  be  as  selfish  and  as  sensual  as  they  please, 
and,  between  God's  will  and  the  Devil's  actions, 
always  have  some  one  to  throw  their  sin  on.  But 
we,  wretched  unbelievers,  we  bear  our  own  bur- 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM,  26 1 

dens ;  we  must  say,  '  I  myself  did  it,  I.  Not  God, 
nor  Satan  ;  I  myself ! '  That  is  the  sting  that 
strikes  deep.  Waldo,"  she  said  gently,  with  a 
sudden  and  complete  change  of  manner,  "  I  like 
you  so  much,  I  love  you."  She  rested  her  cheek 
softly  against  his  shoulder.  "  When  I  am  with 
you  I  never  know  that  I  am  a  woman  and  you  are 
a  man ;  I  only  know  that  we  are  both  things  that 
think.  Other  men  when  I  am  with  them,  whether 
I  love  them  or  not,  they  are  mere  bodies  to  me : 
but  you  are  a  spirit ;  I  like  you.  Look,"  she 
said  quickly,  sinking  back  into  her  corner,  "  what 
a  pretty  pinkness  there  is  on  all  the  hill-tops ! 
The  sun  will  rise  in  a  moment." 

Waldo  lifted  his  eyes  to  look  round  over  the 
circle  of  golden  hills ;  and  the  horses,  as  the  first 
sunbeams  touched  them,  shook  their  heads  and 
champed  their  bright  bits,  till  the  brass  settings 
in  their  harness  glittered  again. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  they  nearedthe  farm- 
house :  a  red-brick  building,  with  kraals  to  the 
right  and  a  small  orchard  to  the  left.  Already 
there  were  signs  of  unusual  life  and  bustle  :  one  » 
cart,  a  wagon,  and  a  couple  of  saddles  against 
the  wall  betokened  the  arrival  of  a  few  early 
guests,  whose  numbers  would  soon  be  largely 
increased.  To  a  Dutch  country  wedding  guests 
start  up  in  numbers  astonishing  to  one  who  has 
merely  ridden  through  the  plains  of  sparsely- 
inhabited  karroo. 

As  the  morning  advances,  riders  on  many 
shades  of  steeds  appear  from  all  directions,  and 
add  their  saddles  to  the  long  rows  against  the 


262  THE  STORY  OF 

walls,  shake  hands,  drink  coffee,  and  stand  about 
outside  in  groups  to  watch  the  arriving  carts  and 
ox-wagons,  as  they  are  unburdened  of  their  heavy 
freight  of  massive  Tantes  and  comely  daughters, 
followed   by   swarms     of   children    of   all   sizes, 
dressed  in  all  manner  of  print  and  moleskin,  who 
are  taken  care  of  by  Hottentot,  Kaffir,  and  half- 
caste  nurses,  whose   many-shaded  complexions, 
ranging  from  light  yellow  up  to  ebony  black,  add 
variety  to  the  animated   scene.     Everywhere  is 
excitement  and  bustle,  which  gradually  increases 
as  the  time  for  the  return  of  the  wedding  party 
approaches.      Preparations     for     the   feast    are 
actively  advancing  in  the  kitchen ;  coffee  is  lib- 
erally handed  rOund,  and  amid  a  profound  sensa- 
tion, and  the  firing  of  guns,  the  horse-wagon  draws 
up,  and  the    wedding  party   alight.     Bride   and 
bridegroom,  with  their  attendants,  march  solemnly 
to  the  marriage-chamber,  where  bed  and  box  are 
decked  out  in  white,  with  ends  of  ribbon  and  arti- 
ficial flowers,  and  where  on  a  row  of  chairs  the 
party  solemnly  seat  themselves.     After  a  time 
#bridemaid  and  best  man   rise,    and   conduct  in 
with   ceremony  each    individual    guest,  to   wish 
success  and  to  kiss  bride  and  bridegroom.     Then 
the  feast  is  set  on  the   table,   and  it  is  almost 
sunset  before  the   dishes  are  cleared  away,  and 
the  pleasure  of  the  day  begins.     Everything  is 
removed  from  the  great  front  room,  and  the  mud 
floor,  well   rubbed  with  bullock's   blood,  glistens 
like  polished   mahogany.     The  female  portion  of 
the  assembly  flock  into  the  side-rooms  to  attire 
themselves  for  the  evening ;  and  re-issue  clad  ir/ 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  263 

white  muslin,  and  gay  with  bright  ribbons  and 
brass  jewelry.  The  dancing  begins  as  the  first 
tallow  candles  are  stuck  up  about  the  walls,  the 
music  coming  from  a  couple  of  fiddlers  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room.  Bride  and  bridegroom  open  the 
ball,  and  the  floor  is  soon  covered  with  whirling 
couples,  and  every  one's  spirits  rise.  The  bridal 
pair  mingle  freely  in  the  throng,  and  here  and 
there  a  musical  man  sings  vigorously  as  he  drags 
his  partner  through  the  Blue  Water  or  John  Sper- 
iwig;  boys  shout  and  applaud,  and  the  enjoyment 
and  confusion  are  intense,  till  eleven  o'clock 
comes.  By  this  time  the  children  who  swarm  in 
the  side-rooms" are  not  to  be  kept  quiet  longer, 
even  by  hunches  of  bread  and  cake  ;  there  is  a 
general  howl  and  wail,  that  rises  yet  higher  than 
the  scraping  of  fiddles,  and  mothers  rush  from 
their  partners  to  knock  small  heads  together,  and 
cuff  little  nursemaids,  and  force  the  wailers  down 
into  unoccupied  corners  of  beds,  under  tables, 
and  behind  boxes.  In  half  an  hour  every  variety 
of  childish  snore  is  heard  on  all  sides,  and  it  has 
become  perilous  to  raise  or  set  down  a  foot  in 
any  of  the  side-rooms  lest  a  small  head  or  hand 
should  be  crushed.  Now,  too,  the  busy  feet  have 
broken  the  solid  coating  of  the  floor,  and  a  cloud 
of  fine  dust  arises,  that  makes  a  yellow  halo 
round  the  candles,  and  sets  asthmatic  people 
coughing,  and  grows  denser,  till  to  recognize  any 
one  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  becomes 
impossible,  and  a  partner's  face  is  seen  through  a 
yellow  mist. 

At    twelve  o'clock  the    bride  is  led  to  the 


264  THE  STORY  OF 

marriage-chamber  and  undressed  ;  the  lights  are 
blown  out,  and  the  bridegroom  is  brought  to  the 
door  by  the  best  man,  who  gives  him  the  key; 
then  the  door  is  shut  and  locked,  and  the  revels 
rise  higher  than  ever.  There  is  no  thought  of 
sleep  till  morning,  and  no  unoccupied  spot 
where  sleep  may  be  found. 

It  was  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings  on  the 
night  of  Tant'  Sannie's  wedding  that  Lyndall  sat 
near  the  doorway  in  one  of  the  side-rooms,  to 
watch  the  dancers  as  they  appeared  and  disap- 
peared in  the  yellow  cloud  of  dust.  Gregory  sat 
moodily  in  a  corner  of  the  large  dancing-room. 
His  little  betrothed  touched  his  arm. 

"  I  wish  you  would  go  and  ask  Lyndall  to 
dance  with  you,"  she  said ;  "  she  must  be  so 
tired ;  she  has  sat  still  the  whole  evening." 

"  I  have  asked  her  three  times,"  replied  her 
lover  shortly.  "I'm  not  going  to  be  Zier'dog, 
and  creep  to  her  feet,  just  to  give  her  the  pleas- 
ure of  kicking  me — not  for  you,  Em,  nor  for  any- 
body else." 

"  Oh,  I  didn't  know  you  had  asked  her,  Greg," 
said  his  little  betrothed  humbly ;  and  she  went 
away  to  pour  out  coffee. 

Nevertheless,  some  time  after  Gregory  found 
he  had  shifted  so  far  round  the  room  as  to  be 
close  to  the  door  where  Lyndall  sat.  After  stand- 
ing for  some  time  he  inquired  whether  he  might 
not  bring  her  a  cup  of  coffee.  She  declined  :  but 
still  he  stood  on  (why  should  he  not  stand  there 
as  well  as  anywhere  else  ?)  and  then  he  stepped 
into  the  bedroom, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  265 

"  May  I  not  bring  you  a  stove,  Miss  Lyndall, 
to  put  your  feet  on  ? " 

"  Thank  you." 

He  sought  for  one,  and  put  it  under  her  feet. 

"  There  is  a  draught  from  that  broken  window : 
shall  I  stuff  something  in  the. pane  ?  " 

"  No ;  we  want  air." 

Gregory  looked  round,  but,  nothing  else  sug- 
gesting itself,  he  sat  down  on  a  box  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  door.  Lyndall  sat  before  him, 
her  chin  resting  in  her  hand ;  her  eyes,  steel-gray 
by  day  but  black  by  night,  looked  through  the 
doorway  into  the  next  room.  After  a  time  he 
thought  she  had  entirely  forgotten  his  proximity, 
and  he  dared  to  inspect  the  little  hands  and  neck 
as  he  never  dared  when  he  was  in  momentary 
dread  of  the  eyes  being  turned  upon  him.  She 
was  dressed  in  black,  which  seemed  to  take  her 
yet  further  from  the  white-clad,  gewgawed  women 
about  her :  and  the  little  hands  were  white,  and 
the  diamond  ring  glittered.  Where  had  she  got 
that  ring  ?  He  bent  forward  a  little  and  tried  to 
decipher  the  letters,  but  the  candle-light  was  too 
faint.  When  he  looked  up  her  eyes  were  fixed 
on  him.  She  was  looking  at  him— not,  Gregory 
felt,  as  she  had  ever  looked  at  him  before ;  not 
as  though  he  were  a  stump  or  a  stone  that  chance 
had  thrown  in  her  way.  To-night,  whether  it 
were  critically,  or  kindly,  or  .unkindly,  he  could 
not  tell,  but  she  looked  at  him,  at  the  man,  Greg- 
ory Rose,  with  attention.  A  vague  elation  filled 
him.  He  clenched  his  fist  tight  to  think  of  some 
good  idea  he  might  express  to  her ;  but  of  all 


266  THE  STORY  OF 

those  profound  things  he  had  pictured  himself  as 
saying  to  her,  when  he  sat  alone  in  the  daub-and- 
wattle  house,  not  one  came.     He  said  at  last : 

"  These  Boer  dances  are  very  low  things  ; " 
and  then,  as  soon  as  it  had  gone  from  him,  he 
thought  it  was  not  a  clever  remark,  and  wished 
it  back. 

Before  Lyndall  replied  Em  looked  in  at  the 
door* 

"Oh,  come,"  she  said;  "they  are  going  to 
have  the  cushion-dance.  I  do  not  want  to  kiss 
any  of  these  fellows.     Take  me  quickly." 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  Gregory's  arm. 

"  It  is  so  dusty,  Em ;  do  you  care  to  dance  any 
more  ? "  he  asked,  without  rising. 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  mind  the  dust,  and  the  dancing 
rests  me." 

But  he  did  not  move. 

"  I  feel  tired ;  I  do  not  think  I  shall  dance 
again,"  he  said. 

Em  withdrew  her  hand,  and  a  young  farmer 
came  to  the  door  and  bore  her  off. 

"  I  have  often  imagined,"  remarked  Gregory— 
Lyndall  had  risen. 

"  I  am  tired,"  she  said.  "  I  wonder  where 
Waldo  is ;  he  must  take  me  home.  These  people 
will  not  leave  off  till  morning,  I  suppose;  it  is 
three  already." 

She  made  her  way  past  the  fiddlers,  and  a 
bench  full  of  tired  dancers,  and  passed  out  at  the 
front  door.  On  the  "  stoop "  a  group  of  men 
and  boys  were  smoking,  peeping  in  at  the 
windows^    and   cracking  coarse    jokes.     Waldo 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM,  267 

was  certainly  not  among  them,  and  she  made  her 
way  to  the  carts  and  wagons  drawn  up  at  some 
distance  from  the  homestead. 

"  Waldo,"  she  said,  peering  into  a  large  cart, 
"  is  that  you  ?  I  am  so  dazed  with  the  tallow 
candles,  I  see  nothing." 

He  had  made  himself  a  place  between  the  two 
seats.  She  climbed  up  and  sat  on  the  sloping 
floor  in  front. 

"  I  thought  I  should  find  you  here,"  she  said, 
drawing  her  skirt  up  about  her  shoulders.  "  You 
must  take  me  home  presently,  but  not  now." 

She  leaned  her  head  on  the  seat  near  to  his, 
and  they  listened  in  silence  to  the  fitful  twang- 
ing of  the  fiddles  as  the  night-wnd  bore  it  from 
the  farm-house,  and  to  the  ceaseless  thud  of  the 
dancers,  and  the  peals  of  gross  laughter.  She 
stretched  out  her  little  hand  to  feel  for  his. 

"  It  is  so  nice  to  lie  here  and  hear  that  noise,'' 
she  said.  "  I  like  to  feel  that  strange  life  beating 
up  against  me.  I  like  to  realize  forms  of  life 
utterly  unlike  mine."  She  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  When  my  own  life  feels  small,  and  I  am  op- 
pressed with  it,  I  like  to  crush  together,  and  see 
it  in  a  picture,  in  an  instant,  a  multitude  of  dis- 
connected unlike  phases  of  human  life — a  medi- 
aeval monk  with  his  string  of  beads  pacing  the 
quiet  orchard,  and  looking  up  from  the  grass  at 
his  feet  to  the  heavy  fruit-trees ;  little  Malay  boys 
playing  naked  on  a  shining  sea-beach ;  a  Hindoo 
philosopher  alone  under  his  banyan-tree,  thinking, 
thinking,  thinking,  so  that  in  the  thought  of  God 
he  raay  lose  himself  j  a  troop  of  Bacchanalians 


268  THE  STORY  OF 

dressed  in  white,  with  crowns  of  vine-leaves, 
dancing  along  the  Roman  streets ;  a  martyr  on 
the  night  of  his  death  looking  through  the  narrow 
window  to  the  sky,  and  feeling  that  already  he 
has  the  wings  that  shall  be*r  him  up  "  (she  moved 
her  hand  dreamily  over  her  face) ;  "  an  epicurean 
discoursing  at  a  Roman  bath  to  a  knot  of  his  dis- 
ciples on  the  nature  of  happiness ;  a  Kaffir  witch- 
doctor seeking  for  herbs  by  moonlight,  while 
from  the  huts  on  the  hill-side  come  the  sound  of 
dogs  barking,  and  the  voices  of  women  and  chil- 
dren ;  a  mother  giving  bread  and  milk  to  her  chil- 
dren in  little  wooden  basins  and  singing  the  even- 
ing song.  I  like  to  see  it  all ;  I  feel  it  run  through 
me — that  life  belongs  to  me  ;  it  makes  my  little 
life  larger,  it  breaks  down  the  narrow  walls  that 
shut  me  in." 

She  sighed,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 

"  Have  you  made  any  plan  ? "  she  asked  him 
presently. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  the  words  coming  in  jets,  with 
pauses  between  ;  "  I  will  take  the  gray  mare — I 
will  travel  first — I  will  see  the  world — -then  I  will 
find  work." 

"  What  work  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know." 

She  made  a  little  impatient  movement, 

"  That  is  no  plan  ;  travel — see  the  world — find 
work  !  If  you  go  into  the  world  aimless,  without 
a  definite  object,  dreaming — dreaming,  you  will 
be  definitely  defeated,  bamboozled,  knocked  this 
way  and  that.  In  the  end  you  will  stand  with 
your  beautiful  life  all  spent,  and  nothing  to  *A9h\ 


AN  A  FRICA N  FA  RM.  269 

They  talk  of  genius — it  is  nothing  but  this,  that  a 
man  knows  what  he  can  do  best,  and  does  it,  and 
nothing  else.  Waldo,"  she  said,  knitting  her  little 
fingers  closer  among  his,  "  I  wish  I  could  help 
you  ;  I  wish  I  could  make  you  see  that  you  must 
decide  what  you  will  be  and  do.  It  does  not 
matter  what  you  choose— be  a  farmer,  business- 
man, artist,  what  you  will— but  know  your  aim, 
and  live  for  that  one  thing.  We  have  only  one 
life.  The  secret  of  success  is  concentration  ; 
wherever  there  has  been  a  great  life,  or  a  great 
work,  that  has  gone  before.  Taste  everything  a 
little,  look  at  everything  a  ljttle  ;  but  live  for  one 
thing.  Anything  is  possible  to  a  man  who  knows 
his  end  and  moves  straight  for  it,  and  for  it  alonep 
I  will  show  you  what  I  mean,"  she  said  concisely ; 
"  words  are  gas  till  you  condense  them  into  pict- 
ures. 

"  Suppose  a  woman,  young,  friendless  as  I  am, 
the  weakest  thing  on  God's  earth.  But  she  must 
make  her  way  through  life.  What  she  would  be 
she  cannot  be  because  she  is  a  woman  ;  so  she 
looks  carefully  at  herself  and  the  world  about  her* 
to  see  where  her  path  must  be  made.  There  i» 
no  one  to  help  her  ;  she  must  help  herself.  She 
looks.  These  things  she  has — a  sweet  voice,  rich 
in  subtle  intonations;  a  fair,  very  fair  face,  with 
a  power  of  concentrating  in  itself,  and  giving 
expression  to  feelings  that  otherwise  must  have 
been  dissipated  in  words;  a  rare  power  of  enter- 
ing intQjother  lives  unlike  her  own,  and  intuitively 
reading  them  aright.  These  qualities  she  has. 
How  shall  she  use  them  ?     A  poet,  a  writer,  needs 


270  THE  STORY  OF 

only  the  mental ;  what  use  has  he  for  a  beautiful 
body  that  registers  clearly  mental  emotions  ?  And 
the  painter  wants  an  eye  for  form  and  color,  and 
the  musician  an  ear  for  time  and  tune,  and  the 
mere  drudge  has  no  need  for  mental  gifts.  But 
there  is  one  art  in  which  all  she  has  would  be 
used,  for  which  they  are  all  necessary — the  deli- 
cate expressive  body,  the  rich  voice,  the  power  of 
mental  transposition.  The  actor,  who  absorbs 
and  then  reflects  from  himself  other  human  lives, 
needs  them  all,  but  needs  not  much  more.  This 
is  her  end  ,  but  how  to  reach  it  ?  Before  her  are 
endless  difficulties  :  seas  must  be  crossed,  poverty 
must  be  endured,  loneliness,  want.  She  must  be 
content  to  wait  long  before  she  can  even  get  her 
feet  upon  the  path.  If  she  has  made  blunders  in 
the  past,  if  she  has  weighted  herself  with  a  burden 
which  she  must  bear  to  the  end,  she  must  but 
bear  the  burden  bravely,  and  labor  on.  There  is 
no  use  in  wailing  and  repentance  here  :  the  next 
world  is  the  place  for  that ;  this  life  is  too  short. 
By  our  errors  we  see  deeper  into  life.  They  help 
us."  She  waited  for  a  while.  "  If  she  does  all 
this — if  she  waits  patiently,  if  she  is  never  cast 
down,  never  despairs,  never  forgets  her  end, 
moves  straight  toward  it,  bending  men  and  things 
most  unlikely  to  her  purpose — she  must  succeed 
at  last.  Men  and  things  are  plastic  ;  they  part  to 
the  right  and  left  when  one  comes  among  them 
moving  in  a  straight  line  to  one  end.  I  know  it 
by  my  own  little  experience,"  she  said.  "  Long 
years  ago  I  resolved  to  be  sent  to  school.  It 
seemed  a  thing  utterly  out  of  my  power ;  but  I 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  2 7 1 

waited,  I  watched,  I  collected  clothes,  I  wrote, 
took  my  place  at  the  school ;  when  all  was  ready 
I  bore  with  my  full  force  on  the  Boer-woman,  and 
Bhe  sent  me  at  last.  It  was  a  small  thing ;  but 
life  is  made  up  of  small  things,  as  a  body  is  built 
up  of  cells.  What  has  been  done  in  small  things 
can  be  done  in  large.     Shall  be,"  she  said  softly. 

Waldo  listened.  To  him  the  words  were  no 
confession,  no  glimpse  into  the  strong,  proud, 
restless  heart  of  the  woman.  They  were  general 
words  with  a  general  application.  He  looked  up 
into  the  sparkling  sky  with  dull  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  he  said  ;  "  but  when  we  lie  and  think, 
and  think,  we  see  that  there  is  nothing  worth 
doing.  The  universe  is  so  large,  and  man  is  so 
small " 

She  shook  her  head  quickly. 

'fc  But  we  must  not  think  so  far ;  it  is  madness, 
it  is  a  disease.  We  know  that  no  man's  work  is 
great,  and  stands  for  ever.  Moses  is  dead,  and 
the  prophets,  and  the  books  that  our  grand- 
mothers fed  on  the  mold  is  eating.  Your  poet 
and  painter  and  actor — before  the  shouts  that 
applaud  them  have  died  their  names  grow  strange, 
they  are  mile-stones  that  the  world  has  passed. 
Men  have  set  their  mark  on  mankind  forever,  as 
they  thought ;  but  time  has  washed  it  out  as  it 
has  washed  out  mountains  and  continents."  She 
raised  herself  on  her  elbow.  "  And  what,  if  we 
could  help  mankind,  and  leave  the  traces  of  our 
work  upon  it  to  the  end  ?  Mankind  is  only  an 
ephemeral  blossom  on  the  tree  of  time  ;  there  were 
others  before  it  opened ;  there  will  be  others  after 


272  THE  STORY  OF 

it  has  fallen.  Where  was  man  in  the  time  of  the 
dicynodont,  and  when  hoary  monsters  wallowed 
in  the  mud  ?  Will  he  be  found  in  the  aeons  that 
are  to  come  ?  We  are  sparks,  we  are  shadows, 
we  are  pollen,  which  the  next  wind  will  carry 
away.     We  are  dying  already ;  it  is  all  a  dream. 

"  I  know  that  thought.  When  the  fever  of 
living  is  on  us,  when  the'  desire  to  become,  to 
know,  to  do,  is  driving  us  mad,  we  can  use  it  as 
an  anodyne,  to  still  the  fever  and  cool  our  beat- 
ing pulses.  But  it  is  a  poison,  not  a  food.  If 
we  live  on  it,  it  will  turn  our  blood  to  ice ;  we 
might  as  well  be  dead.  We  must  not,  Waldo ;  I 
want  your  life  to  be  beautiful,  to  end  in  some- 
thing. You  are  nobler  and  stronger  than  I,"  she 
said ;  "  and  as  much  better  as  one  of  God's  great 
angels  is  better  than  a  sinning  man.  Your  life 
must  go  for  something." 

"  Yes,  we  will  work,"  he  said. 

She  moved  closer  to  him  and  lay  still,  his  black 
curls  touching  her  smooth  little  head. 

Doss,  who  had  lain  at  his  master's  side,  climbed 
over  the  bench,  and  curled  himself  up  in  her  lap. 
She  drew  her  skirt  up  over  him,  and  the  three  sat 
motionless  for  a  long  time. 

"  Waldo,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "they  are  laugh- 
ing at  us."  , 

"  Who  ? "  he  asked,  starting  up. 

"  They— the  stars  !  "  she  said  softly.  "  Do 
you  not  see?  there  is  a  Kttle,  white,  mocking 
finger  pointing  down  at  us  from  each  one  of  them  ! 
We  are  talking  of  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and 
our  hearts  are  so  strong ;  we  are  not  thinking  of 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  273 

something  that  can  touch  us  softly  in  the  dark,  and 
make  us  still  forever.  They  are  laughing  at  us, 
Waldo." 

Both  sat  looking  upward. 

"  Do  you  ever  pray  ?  "  he  asked  her  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  No."  - 

"  I  never   do ;  but  I  might  when  I  look  up 
there.     I  will  tell  you,"  he  added,  in  a  still  lower  i 
voice,  "  where  I  could  pray.     If  there  were  a  wall 
of  rock  on  the '  edge  of  a  world,  and  one  rock  \ 
stretched  out   far,  far  into  space,   and  I  stood  \ 
alone   upon  it,  alone,  with  stars  above  me,  and  j 
stars  below  me — I  would  not  say  anything ;  buy 
the   feeling  would  be  prayer." 

There  was  an  end  to  their  conversation  after 
that,  and  Doss  fell  asleep  on  her  knee.  At  last 
the  night-wind  grew  very  chilly. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  shivering,  and  drawing  the 
skirt  about  her  shoulders,  "  I  am  cold.  Span-in 
the  horses,  and  call  me  when  you  are  ready." 

She  slipped  down  and  walked  toward  the  house, 
Doss  stiffly  following  her,  not  pleased  at  being 
roused.     At  the  door  she  met  Gregory. 

*-■  I  have  been  looking  for  you  everywere ;  may 
I  not  drive  you  home  ?  "  he  said. 

"Waldo  drives  me,"  she  replied,  passing  on; 
and  it  appeared  to  Gregory  that  she  looked  at  him 
in  the  old  way,  without  seeing  him.  But  before 
she  had  reached  the  door  an  idea  had  occurred 
to  her,  for  she  turned. 

"  If  you  wish  to  drive  me  you  may." 

Gregory  went  to  look  for  Em,  whom  he  found 
18 


274  THE  STOR  Y  OF 

pouring  out  coffee  in  the  back  room.  He  put  his 
hand  quickly  on  her  shoulder. 

"  You  must  ride  with  Waldo ;  I  am  going  to 
drive  your  cousin  home." 

"  But  I  can't  come  just  now,  Greg ;  I  promised 
Tant'  Sannie  Muller  to  look  after  the  things  while 
she  went  to  rest  a  little." 

"Well,  you  can  come  presently,  can't  you  ?  I 
didn't  say  you  were  to  come  now.  I'm  sick  of 
this  thing,"  said  Gregory,  turning  sharply  on  his 
heel.  "  Why  must  I  sit  up  the  whole  night  be- 
cause your  step-mother  chooses  to  get  married  ?  " 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right,  Greg,  I  only  meant " 

But  he  did  not  hear  her,  and  a  man  had  come 
up  to  have  his  cup  filled. 

An  hour  after  Waldo  came  in  to  look  for  her, 
and  found  her  still  busy  at  the  table. 

"  The  horses  are  ready,"  he  said  ;  "  but  if  you 
would  like  to  have  one  dance  more  I  will  wait." 

She  shook  her  head  wearily. 

"  No  ;  I  am  quite  ready.     I  want  to  go." 

And  soon  they  were  on  the  sandy  road  the  buggy 
had  traveled  an  hour  before.  Their  horses,  with 
heads  close  together,  nodding  sleepily  as  they 
walked  in  the  starlight,  you  might  have  counted 
the  rise  and  fall  of  their  feet  in  the  sand  ;  and 
Waldo  in  his  saddle  nodded  drowsily  also.  Only 
Em  was  awake,  and  watched  the  starlit  road  with 
wide-open  eyes.     At  last  she  spoke. 

"  I  wonder  if  all  people  feel  so  old,  so  very  old, 
when  they  get  to  be  seventeen  ? " 

"  Not  older  than  before,"  said  Waldo,  sleepily, 
pulling  at  his  bridle. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  275 

Presently  she  said  again, — 

"  I  wish  I  could  have  been  a  child  always. 
Vou  are  good  then.  You  are-  never  selfish  ;  you 
like  every  one  to  have  everything ;  but  when  you 
are  grown  up  there  are  some  things  you  like  to 
have  all  to  yourself,  you  don't  like  any  one  else 
to  have  any  of  them." 

"  Yes,"  said  Waldo,  sleepily,  and  she  did  not 
speak  again. 

When  they  reached  the  farm-house  all  was  dark, 
for  Lyndall  retired  as  soon  as  they  got  home. 

Waldo  lifted  Em  from  her  saddle,  and  for  a 
moment  she  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
and  clung  to  him. 

"  You  are  very  tired,"  he  said,  as  he  walked 
with  her  to  the  door*;  "  let  me  go  in  and  light  a 
candle  for  you." 

"  No,  thank  you ;  it  is  all  right,"  she  said. 
"  Good-night,  Waldo  dear." 

But  when  she  went  in  she  sat  long  alone  in  the 
dark. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

WALDO  GOES    OUT  TO   TASTE    LIFE,  AND   EM    STAYS 
AT  HOME  AND   TASTES  IT. 

At  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  packing  his 
bundles  for  the  next  morning's  start,  Waldo  looked 
up,  and  was  surprised  to  see  Em's  yellow  head 
peeping  in  at  his  door.  It  was  many  a  month 
since  she  had  been  there.  She  said  she  had  made 
him  sandwiches  for  his  journey,  and  she  stayed  a 


276  THE  STORY  OF 

while  to  help  him  put  his  goods  into  the  saddle- 
hags. 

"  You  can  leave  the  old  things  lying  about," 
she  said  ;  "  I  will  lock  the  room,  and  keep  it 
waiting  for  you  to  come  back  some  day." 

To  come  back  some  day!  Would  the  bird 
ever  return  to  its  cage  ?  But  he  thanked  her. 
When  she  went  away  he  stood  on  the  door-step 
holding  the  candle  till  she  had  almost  reached  the 
house.  But  Em  was  that  evening  in  no  hurry  to 
enter,  and,  instead  of  going  in  at  the  back  door, 
walked  with  lagging  footsteps  round  the  low  brick 
wall  that  ran  before  the  house.  Opposite  the 
open  window  of  the  parlor  she  stopped.  The 
little  room,  kept  carefully  closed  in  Tant'  Sannie's 
time,  was  well  lighted  by  a  paraffin  lamp ;  books 
and  work  lay  strewn  about  it,  and  it  wore  a  bright, 
habitable  aspect.  Beside  the  lamp  at  the  table 
in  the  corner  sat  Lyndali,  the  open  letters  and 
papers  of  the  day's  post  lying  scattered  before 
her,  while  she  perused  the  columns  of  a  news- 
paper. At  the  center  table,  with  his  arms  folded 
on  an  open  paper,  which  there  was  not  light 
enough  to  read,  sat  Gregory.  He  was  looking  at 
her.  The  light  from  the  open  window  fell  on 
Em's  little  face  under  its  white  "  kappje  "  as  she 
looked  in,  but  no  one  glanced  that  way. 

"  Go  and  fetch  me  a  glass  of  water,"  Lyndali 
said  at  last. 

Gregory  went  out  to  find  it ;  when  he  put  it 
down  at  her  side  she  merely  moved  her  head  in 
recognition,  and  he  went  back  to  his  seat  and  his 
old  occupation.     Then    Em  moved  slowly  away 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


77 


from  the  window,  and  through  it  came  in  spotted, 
hard-winged  insects,  to  play  round  the  lamp,  till, 
one  by  one,  they  stuck  to  its  glass,  and  fell  to  the 
foot  dead. 

Ten  o'clock  struck.  Then  Lyndall  rose,  gath- 
ered up  her  papers  and  letters,  and  wished  Greg- 
ory good-night.  Some  time  after  Em  entered ; 
she  had  been  sitting  all  the  while  on  the  loft-ladder, 
and  had  drawn  her  "  kappje  "  down  very  much 
over  her  face. 

Gregory  was  piecing  together  the  bits  of  an 
envelope  when  she  came  in. 

"I  thought  you  were  never  coming,"  he  said, 
turning  round  quickly,  and  throwing  the  fragments* 
on  to  the  floor.  "  You  know  I  have  been  shear- 
ing all  day,  and  it  is  ten  o'clock  already." 

"I'm  sorry.  I  did  not  think  you  would  be 
going  so  soon,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  can't  hear  what  you  say.  What  makes  you 
mumble  so  ?     Well,  good-night,  Em." 

He  stooped  down  hastily  to  kiss  her. 

"  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Gregory." 

"  Well,  make  haste,"  he  said,  pettishly.  "  I'm 
awfully  tired.  I've  been  sitting  here  all  the  even- 
ing.    Why  couldn't  you  come  and  talk  before  ? " 

"  I  will  not  keep  you  long,"  she  answered,  very 
steadily  now.  "  I  think,  Gregory,  it  would  be 
better  if  you  and  I  were  never  to  be  married.'"' 

"  Good  heavens  !  Em,  what  do  you  mean  t  I 
thought  you  were  so  fond  of  me  ?  You  always 
professed  to  be.  What  on  earth  have  you  taken 
into  your  head  now  ? " 

"  I  think  it  would  be  better/'  she  said,  folding 


278  THE  STORY  OF 

her  hands  over  each  other,  very  much  as  though 
she  were  praying. 

"  Better,  Em  !  What  do  you  mean  ?  Even  a 
woman  can't  take  a  freak  all  about  nothing! 
You  must  have  some  reason  for  it,  and  I'm  sure 
I've  done  nothing  to  offend  you.  I  wrote  only 
to-day  to  my  sister  to  tell  her  to  come  up  next 
month  to  our  wedding,  and  I've  been  as  affection- 
ate and  happy  as  possible.  Come — what's  the 
matter?" 

He  put  his  arm  half  round  her  shoulder,  very 
loosely. 

"  I  think  it  would  be  better,"  she  answered, 
slowly. 

"  Oh,  well,"  he  said,  drawing  himself  up,  "  if 
you  won't  enter  into  explanations  you  won't ;  and 
I'm  not  the  man  to  beg  and  pray — not  to  any 
woman,  and  you  know  that !  If  you  don't  want 
to  marry  me  I  can't  oblige  you  to,  of  course." 

She  stood  quite  still  before  him. 

"  You  women  never  do  know  your  own  minds 
lor  two  days  together  ;  and  of  course  you  know 
the  state  of  your  own  feelings  best ;  but  it's  very- 
strange.  Have  you  really  made  up  your  mind, 
Em  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I'm  very  sorry.  I'm  sure  I've  not  been 
in  anything  to  blame.  A  man  can't  always  be 
billing  and  cooing ;  but,  as  you  say,  if  your  feel- 
ing for  me  has  changed,  it's  much  better  you 
shouldn't  marry  me.  There's  nothing  so  foolish 
as  to  marry  some  one  you  don't  love ;  and  I  only 
Vrish  for  your  happiness,  I'm  sure,    I  dare  say 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  279 

you'll  find  some  one  can  make  you  much  happier 
than  /  could  ;  the  first  person  we  love  is  seldom 
the  right  one.  You  are  very  young  ;  it's  quite 
natural  you  should  change." 

She  said  nothing. 

"  Things  often  seem  hard  at  the  time,  but  Prov- 
idence makes  them  turn  out  for  the  best  in  the 
end,"  said  Gregory.  "You'll  let  me  kiss  you, 
Em,  just  for  old  friendship's  sake."  He  stooped 
down.  "  You  must  look  upon  me  as  a  dear 
brother,  as  a  cousin  at  least ;  as  long  as  I  am  on 
the  farm  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  help  you, 
Em." 

Soon  after  the  brown  pony  was  cantering  along 
the  footpath  to  the  daub-and-wattle  house,  and 
his  master  as  he  rode  whistled  John  Speriwig  and 
the  Thorn  Cloof  Schottische. 

The  sun  had  not  yet  touched  the  outstretched 
arms  of  the  prickly  pear  upon  the  "  kopje,"  and 
the  early  cocks  and  hens  still  strutted  about  stiffly 
after  the  night's  roost,  when  Waldo  stood  before 
the  wagon-house  saddling  the  gray  mare.  Every 
now  and  then  he  glanced  up  at  the  old  familiar 
objects  :  they  had  a  new  aspect  that  morning. 
Even  the  cocks,  seen  in  the  light  of  parting,  had 
a  peculiar  interest,  and  he  listened  with  conscious 
attention  while  one  crowed  clear  and  loud  as  it 
stood  on  the  pigsty  wall.  He  wished  good-morn- 
ing softly  to  the  Kaffir  woman  who  was  coming 
up  from  the  huts  to  light  the  fire.  He  was  leav- 
ing them  all  to  that  old  life,  and  from  his  height 
he  looked  down  on  them  pityingly.  So  they 
would    keep  on  crowing,  and    coming  to    light 


280  THE  STORY  OF 

fires,  when  for  him  that  old  colorless  existence 
was  but  a  dream. 

He  went  into  the  house  to  say  good-bye  to  Em, 
and  then  he  walked  to  the  door  of  LyndalPs  room 
to  wake  her  ;  but  she  was  up,  and  standing  in 
the  doorway. 

"  So  you  are  ready,"  she  said. 

Waldo  looked  at  her  with  sudden  heaviness; 
the  exhilaration  died  out  of  his  heart.  Her  gray 
dressing-gown  hung  close  about  her,  and  below 
its  edge  the  little  bare  feet  were  resting  on  the 
threshold. 

"  I  wonder  when  we  shall  meet  again,  Waldo  ? 
What  you  will  be  and  what  I  ?  " 

"  Will  you  write  to  me  ?  "  he  asked  of  her. 

"  Yes  ;  and  if  I  should  not,  you  can  still  re- 
member, wherever  you  are,  that  you  are  not  alone." 

"  I  have  left  Doss  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  Will  you  not  miss  him  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  want  you  to  have  him.  He  loves  you 
better  than  he  loves  me." 

"  Thank  you."     They  stood  quiet. 

"  Good-bye  !  "  she  said,  putting  her  little  hand 
in  his,  and  he  turned  away  •  but  when  he  reached 
the  door  she  called  to  him  :  "  Come  back,  I  want 
to  kiss  you."  She  drew  his  face  down  to  hers, 
and  held  it  with  both  hands,  and  kissed  it  on  the 
forehead  and  mouth.     "  Good-bye,  dear  !  " 

When  he  looked  back  the  little  figure  with  its 
beautiful  eyes  was  standing  in  the  doorway  still. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  281 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

the  "  kopje." 

'     "  Good-morning  !  " 

Em,  who  was  in  the  store-room  measuring  the 
Kaffirs'  rations,  looked  up  and  saw  her  former 
lover  standing  between  her  and  the  sunshine. 
For  some  days  after  that  evening  on  which  he 
had  ridden  home  whistling  he  had  shunned  her. 
She  might  wish  to  enter  into  explanations,  and 
he,  Gregory  Rose,  was  not  the  man  for  that  kind 
of  thing.  If  a  woman  had  once  thrown  him  over- 
board she  must  take  the  consequences,  and  stand 
by  them.  When,  however,  she  showed  no  inclina- 
tion to  revert  to  the  past,  and  shunned  him  more 
than  he  shunned  her,  Gregory  softened. 

"  You  must  let  me  call  you  Em  still,  and  be 
like  a  brother  to  you  till  I  go,"  he  said  ;  and  Em 
thanked  him  so  humbly  that  he  wished  she  hadn't. 
It  wasn't  so  easy  after  that  to  think  himself  an 
injured  man. 

On  that  morning  he  stood  some  time  in  the 
doorway  switching  his  whip,  and  moving  rather 
restlessly  from  one  leg  to  the  other. 

"  I  think  I'll  just  take  a  walk  up  to  the  camps 
and  see  how  your  birds  are  getting  on.  Now 
Waldo's  gone  you've  no  one  to  see  after  things. 
Nice  morning,  isn't  it  ?  "  Then  he  added  sud- 
denly, "  I'll  just  go  round  to  the  house  and  get  a 
drink  of  water  first ; "  and  somewhat  awkwardly 


282  THE  STORY  OF 

walked  off.  He  might  have  found  water  in  the 
kitchen,  but  he  never  glanced  toward  the  buckets. 
In  the  front  room  a  monkey  and  two  tumblers 
stood  on  the  center  table ;  but  he  merely  looked 
round,  peeped  into  the  parlor,  looked  round  again, 
and  then  walked  out  at  the  front  door,  and  found 
himself  again  at  the  store-room  without  having 
satisfied  his  thirst.  "  Awfully  nice  morning  this," 
he  said,  trying  to  pose  himself  in  a  graceful  and 
indifferent  attitude  against  the  door.  "  It  isn't 
hot  and  it  isn't  cold.     It's  awfully  nice." 

"  Yes,"  said  Em. 

"  Your  cousin,  now,"  said  Gregory  in  an  aim- 
less sort  of  way — "  I  suppose  she's  shut  up  in  her 
room  writing  letters." 

"  No,"  said  Em. 

"  Gone  for  a  drive,  I  expect  ?  Nice  morning 
for  a  drive." 

"  No." 

"  Gone  to  see  the  ostriches,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  No."  After  a  little  silence  Em  added,  "  I 
saw  her  go  by  the  kraals  to  the  *  kopje.' " 

Gregory  crossed  and  uncrossed  his  legs. 

"  Well,  I  think  I'll  just  go  and  have  a  look 
about,"  he  said,  "  and  see  how  things  are  get- 
ting on  before  I  go  to  the  camps.  Good-bye ;  so 
long." 

Em  left  for  a  while  the  bags  she  was  folding 
and  went  to  the  window,  the  same  through  which, 
years  before,  Bonaparte  had  watched  the  slouch- 
ing figure  cross  the  yard.  Gregory  walked  to  the 
pigsty  first,  and  contemplated  the  pigs  for  a  few 
seconds ;  then  turned  round,  and  stood  looking 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  283 

fixedly  at  the  wall  of  the  fuel-house  as  though  he 
thought  it  wanted  repairing  ;  then  he  started  off 
suddenly  with  the  evident  intention  of  going  to 
the  ostrich-camps;  then  paused,  hesitated,  and 
finally  walked  off  in  the  direction  of  the  "  kopje." 

Then  Em  went  back  to  the  corner,  and  folded 
more  sacks. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  "kopje"  Gregory 
caught  sight  of  a  white  tail  waving  among  the 
stones,  and  a  succession  of  short,  frantic  barks 
told  where  Doss  was  engaged  in  howling  im- 
ploringly to  a  lizard  who  had  crept  between 
two  stones,  and  who  had  not  the  slightest  in- 
tention of  re-sunning  himself  at  that  particular 
moment. 

The  dog's  mistress  sat  higher  up,  under  the 
shelving  rock,  her  face  bent  over  a  volume  of 
plays  upon  her  knee.  .  As  Gregory  mounted  the 
stones  she  started  violently  and  looked  up  ;  then 
resumed  her  book. 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  troubling  you,"  said  Gregory, 
as  he  reached  her  side.  "  If  I  am  I  will  go 'away. 
I  just " 

"  No  ;  you  may  stay." 

"  I  fear  I  startled  you." 

"  Yes  ;  your  step  was  firmer  than  it  generally 
is.     I  thought  it  was  that  of  somebody  else." 

"  Who  could  it  be  but  me  ?  "  asked  Gregory, 
seating  himself  on  a  stone  at  her  feet. 

"  Do  you  suppose  you  are  the  only  man  who 
would  find  anything  to  attract  him  to  this 
'kopje'?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Gregory. 


n 


2% 4.  THE  STORY  OF 

He  was  not  going  to  argue  that  point  with  her, 
nor  any  other  ;  but  no  old  Boer  was  likely  to  take 
the  trouble  of  climbing  the  "  kopje,"  and  who  else 
was  there  ? 

She  continued  the  study  of  her  book. 

"  Miss  Lyndall,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  don't  know 
why  it  is  you  never  talk  to  me." 

"  We  had  a  long  conversation  yesterday,"  she 
said  without  looking  up. 

"  Yes  ;  but  you  ask  me  questions  about  sheep 
and  oxen.  I  don't  call  that  .talking.  You  used 
to  talk  to  Waldo,  now,"  he  said,  in  an  aggrieved 
tone  of  voice.  "  I've  heard  you  when  I  came  in, 
and  then  you've  just  left  off.  You  treated  me 
like  that  from  the  first  day  ;  and  you  couldn't  tell 
from  just  looking  at  me  that  I  couldn't  talk  about 
the  things  you  like.  I'm  sure  I  know  as  much 
about  such  things  as  Waldo  does,"  said  Gregory,, 
in  exceeding  bitterness  of  spirit. 

"  I  do  not  know  which  things  you  refer  to.  If 
you  will  enlighten  me  I  am  quite  prepared  to 
speak  of  them,"  she  said,  reading  as  she  spoke. 

"  Oh,  you  never  used  to  ask  Waldo  like  that," 
said  Gregory,  in  a  more  sorely  aggrieved  tone 
than  ever.     "  You  used  just  to  begin." 

Well,  let  me  see,"  she  said,  closing  her  book 
and  folding  her  hands  on  it.  "  There  at  the  foot 
of  the  'kopje  '  goes  a  Kaffir  ;  he  has  nothing  on 
but  a  blanket ;  he  is  a  splendid  fellow — six  feet 
high,  with  a  magnificent  pair  of  legs.  In  his 
leather  bag  he  is  going  to  fetch  his  rations,  and 
I  suppose  to  kick  his  wife  with  his  beautiful  legs 
when   he  gets   home.     He   has   a  right   to ;  he 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  285 

bought  her  for  two  oxen.  There  is  a  lean  clog 
going  after  him,  to  whom  I  suppose  he  never 
gives  more  than  a  bone  from  which  he  has  sucked 
the  marrow ;  but  his  dog  loves  him  as  his  wife 
does,  There  is  something  of  the  master  about 
him  in  spite  of  his  blackness  and  wool.  See 
how  he  brandishes  his  stick  and  holds  up  his 
head !  " 

"  Oh,  but  aren't  you  making  fun  ? "  said  Greg- 
ory, looking  doubtfully  from  her  to  the  Kaffir 
herd,  who  rounded  the  "  kopje." 

"  No ;  I  am  very  serious.  He  is  the  most  in- 
teresting and  intelligent  thing  I  can  see  just  now, 
except,  perhaps,  Doss.  He  is  profoundly  sug- 
gestive. Will  his  race  melt  away  in  the  heat  of  a 
collision  with  a  higher  ?  Are  the  men  of  the 
future  to  see  his  bones  only  in  museums — a 
vestige  of  one  link  that  spanned  between  the  dog 
and  the  white  man  ?  He  wakes  thoughts  that 
run  far  out  into  the  future  and  back  into  the 
past." 

Gregory  was  not  quite  sure  how  to  take  these 
remarks.  Being  about  a  Kaffir,  they  appeared  to 
be  of  the  nature  of  a  joke;  but,  being  seriously 
spoken,  they  appeared  earnest :  so  he  half  laughed 
and  half  not,  to  be  on  the  safe  side. 

"  I've  often  thought  so  myself.  It's  funny  we 
should  both  think  the  same ;  I  knew  we  should  if 
once  we  talked.  But  there  are  other  things — 
love,  now,"  he  added.  "  I  wonder  if  we  would 
think  alike  about  that.  I  wrote  an  essay  on  love 
once  ;  the  master  said  it  was  the  best  I  ever 
Wrote,  and  I  can  remember  the  first  sentence  still 


286  THE  STORY  OF 

■ — '  Love   is   something   that   you    feel   in    your 
heart.' " 

"  That  was  a  trenchant  remark.  Can  you  re- 
member any  more  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Gregory,  regretfully ;  "  I've  for- 
gotten the  rest.  But  tell  me  what  do  you  think 
about  love  ? " 

A  look,  half  of  abstraction,  half  amusement, 
played  on  her  lips. 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  love,"  she  said, 
"  and  I  do  not  like  to  talk  of  things  I  do  not 
understand ;  but  I  have  heard  two  opinions. 
Some  say  the  Devil  carried  the  seed  from  hell, 
and  planted  it  on  the  earth  to  plague  men  and 
make  them  sin  ■  and  some  say,  that  when  all  the 
plants  in  the  garden  of  Eden  were  pulled  up  by 
the  roots,  one  bush  that  the  angels  had  planted 
was  left  growing,  and  it  spread  its  seed  over  the 
whole  earth,  and  its  name  is  love.  I  do  not 
know  which  is  right — perhaps  both.  There  are 
different  species  that  go  under  the  same  name. 
There  is  a  love  that  begins  in  the  head,  and  goes 
down  to  the  heart,  and  grows  slowly  ;  but  it  lasts 
till  death,  and  asks  less  than  it  gives.  There  is 
another  love,  that  blots  out  wisdom,  that  is  sweet 
with  the  sweetness  of  life  and  bitter  with  the  bitter- 
ness of  death,  lasting  for  an  hour  ;  but  it  is  worth 
having  lived  a  whole  life  for  that  hour.  I  cannot 
tell,  perhaps  the  old  monks  were  right  when  they 
tried  to  root  love  out  ;  perhaps  the  poets  are 
right  when  they  try  to  water  it.  It  is  a  blood- 
red  flower,  with  the  color  of  sin ;  but  there  is 
always  the  scent  of  a  god  about  it." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  287 

Gregory  would  have  made  a  remark ;  but  she 
said,  without  noticing, — 

"  There  are  as  many  kinds  of  loves  as  there  are 
flowers  ;  everlastings  that  never  wither ;  speed- 
wells that  wait  for  the  wind  to  fan  them  out  of 
life ;  blood-red  mountain-lilies  that  pour  their 
voluptuous  sweetness  out  for  one  day,  and  lie  in 
the  dust  at  night.  There  is  no  flower  has  the 
charm  of  all— the  speedwell's  purity,  the  ever- 
lasting's strength,  the  mountain-lily's  warmth; 
but  who  knows  whether  there  is  no  love  that 
holds  all— friendship,  passion,  worship  ? 

"  Such  a  love,"  she  said,  in  her  sweetest  voice, 
«  will  fall  on  the  surface  of  strong,  cold,  selfish  life 
as  the  sunlight  falls  on  a  torpid  winter  world ; 
there,  where  the  trees  are  bare,  and  the  ground 
frozen,  till  it  rings  to  the  step  like  iron,  and  the 
water  is  solid  and  the  air  is  sharp  as  a  two-edged 
knife,  that  cuts  the  unwary.  But  when  its  sun 
shines  on  it,  through  its  whole  dead  crust  a  throb- 
bing yearning  wakes :  the  trees  feel  him,  and 
every  knot  and  bud  swell,  aching  to  open  to  him. 
The  brown  seeds,  who  have  slept  deep  under 
the  ground,  feel  him,  and  he  gives  them  strength, 
till  they  break  through  the  frozen  earth,  and  lift 
two  tiny,  trembling  green  hands  in  love  to  him. 
And  he  touches  the  water,  till  down  to  its  depths 
it  feels  him  and  melts,  and  it  flows,  and  the 
things,  strange  sweet  things  that  were  locked  up 
in  it,  it  sings  as  it  runs,  for  love  of  him.  Each 
plant  tries  to  bear  at  least  one  fragrant  little 
flower  for  him  ;  and  the  world  that  was  dead  lives, 
and  the  heart  that  was  dead  and  self-centered 


288  THE  STORY  OF 

throbs,  with  an  upward,  outward  yearning,  and  it 
has  become  that  which  it  seemed  impossible  ever 
to  become.  There,  does  that  satisfy  you  ? "  she 
asked,  looking  down  at  Gregory.  "  Is  that  how 
you  like  me  to  talk  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Gregory,  "  that  is  what  I  have 
already  thought.  We  have  the  same  thoughts 
about  everything*     How  strange  ! '' 

"  Very,"  said  Lyndall,  working  with  her  little 
toe  at  a  stone  in  the  ground  before  her. 

Gregory  felt  he  must  sustain  the  conversation. 

The  only  thing  he  could  think  of  was  to  recite 
a  piece  of  poetry.  He  knew  he  had  learnt  many 
about  love  ;  but  the  only  thing  that  would  come 
into  his  mind  now  was  the  '  Battle  of  Holwilinden? 
and  '  Not  a  drum  ii>as  lieard?  neither  of  which 
seemed  to  bear  directly  on  the  subject  on  hand. 

But  unexpected  relief  came  to  him  from  Doss, 
who,  too  deeply  lost  in  contemplation  of  his  crev- 
ice, was  surprised  by  the  sudden  descent  of  the 
stone  Lyndall's  foot  had  loosened,  which,  rolling 
against  his  little  front  paw,  carried  away  a  piece 
of  white  skin.  Doss  stood  on  three  legs,  hold- 
ing up  the  paw  with  an  expression  of  extreme 
self-commiseration  ;  he  then  proceeded  to  hop 
slowly  upward  in  search  of  sympathy. 

"You  have  hurt  that  dog,"  said  Gregory. 

"  Have  I  r  "  she  replied  indifferently,  and  re- 
opened the  book,  as  though  to  resume  her  study 
of  the  play. 

"  He's  a  nasty,  snappish  little  cur ! "  said 
Gregory,  calculating  from  her  manner  that  the 
remark  would  be  indorsed.     "  He  snapped  at  my 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


2S9 


horse's  tail  yesterday,  and  nearly  made  it  throw 
me.  I  wonder  his  master  didn't  take  him,  instead 
of  leaving  him  here  to  be  a  nuisance  to  all  of  us  !  " 

Lyndall  seemed  absorbed  in  her  play  ;  but  he 
ventured  another  remark. 

"  Do  you  think  now,  Miss  Lyndall,  that  he'H 
ever  have  anything  in  the  world — that  German, 
I  mean — money  enough  to  support  a  wife  on,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing?  I  don't.  He's  what  / 
call  a  soft." 

She  was  spreading  her  skirt  out  softly  with  her 
left  hand  for  the  dog  to  lie  down  on  it. 

"  I  think  I  should  be  rather  astonished  if  he 
ever  became  a  respectable  member  of  society," 
she  said.  "  I  don't  expect  to  see  him  the  pos- 
sessor of  bank-shares,  the  chairman  of  a  divisional 
council,  and  the  father  of  a  large  family ;  wear- 
ing a  black  hat,  and  going  to  church  twice  on 
Sunday.  He  would  rather  astonish  me  if  he  came 
to  such  an  end." 

"  Yes  ;  I  don't  expect  anything  of  him  either," 
said  Gregory,  zealously. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Lyndall;  "there 
are  some  small  things  I  rather  look  to  him  for. 
If  he  were  to  invent  wings,  or  carve  a  statue  that 
one  might  look  at  for  half  an  hour  without  want- 
ing to  look  at  something  else,  I  should  not  be 
surprised.  He  may  do  some  little  thing  of  that 
kind,  perhaps,  when  he  has  done  fermenting  and 
the  sediment  has  all  gone  to  the  bottom." 

Gregory  felt  that  what  she  said  was  not  wholly 
intended  as  blame. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"    he  said   sulkily ;  "  to 
l9 


'.go 


THE  STORY  OF 


me  he  looks  like  a  fool.  To  walk  about  always 
in  that  dead-and-alive  sort  of  way,  muttering  to 
himself  like  an  old  Kaffir  witch-doctor !  He 
works  hard  enough,  but  it's  always  as  though  he 
didn't  know  what  he  was  doing.  You  don't  know 
how  he  looks  to  a  person  who  sees  him  for  the 
first  time." 

Lyndall  was  softly  touching  the  little  sore  foot 
as  she  read,  and  Doss,  to  show  he  liked  it,  licked 
her  hand. 

"  But,  Miss  Lyndall,"  persisted  Gregory,  "  what 
do  you  really  think  of  him  ?  " 

"I  think,"  said  Lyndall,  "that  he  is  like  a 
thorn-tree,  which  grows  up  very  quietly,  without 
any  one's  caring  for  it,  and  one  day  suddenly 
breaks  out  into  yellow  blossoms." 

"  And  what  do  you  think  I  am  like  ? "  asked 
Gregory  hopefully. 

Lyndall  looked  up  from  her  book. 

"  Like  a  little  tin  duck  floating  on  a  dish  of 
water,  that  comes  after  a  piece  of  bread  stuck 
on  a  needle,  and  the  more  the  needle  pricks  it 
the  more  it  comes  on." 

"  Oh,  you  are  making  fun  of  me  now,  you  really 
are  !  "  said  Gregory,  feeling  wretched.  "  You 
are  making  fun,  aren't  you,  now  ? " 

"  Partly.  It  is  always  diverting  to  make  com- 
parisons." 

"Yes;  but  you  don't  compare  me  to  anything 
nice,  and  you  do  other  people.  What  is  Em  like, 
now  ?  " 

"  The  accompaniment  of  a  song.  She  fills  up 
the  gaps  in  other  people's  lives,  and  is  always 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  291 

number  two ;  but  I  think  she  is  like  many  accom- 
paniments— a  great  deal  better  than  the  song  she 
is  to  accompany." 

"  She  is  not  half  so  good  as  you  are  ?  "  said 
Gregory,  with  a,  burst  of  uncontrollable  ardor. 

"  She  is  so  much  better  than  I,  that  her  little 
finger  has  more  goodness  in  it  than  my  whole 
body.  I  hope  you  may  not  live  to  find  out  the 
truth  of  that  fact." 

"  You  are  like  an  angel,"  he  said,  the  blood 
rushing  to  his  head  and  face. 

"  Yes,  probably  :  angels  are   of  many  orders." 

"  You  are  the  one  being  that  I  love !  "  said 
Gregory,  quivering ;  "  I  thought  I  loved  before, 
but  I  know  now  !  Do  not  be  angry  with  me.  I 
know  you  could  never  like  me  ;  but,  if  I  might 
but  always  be  near  you  to  serve  you,  I  would  be 
utterly,  utterly  happy.  I  would  ask  nothing  in 
return  !  If  you  could  only  take  everything  I  have 
and  use  it ;  I  want  nothing  but  to  be  of  use  to  you." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  few  moments. 

"  How  do  you  know,"  she  said  slowly,  "  that 
you  could  not  do  something  to  serve  me  ?  You 
could  serve  me  by  giving  me  your  name." 

He  started,  and  turned  his  burning  face  to  her. 

"  You  are  very  cruel ;  you  are  ridiculing  me," 
he  said. 

"  No,  I  am  not,  Gregory.  What  I  am  saying  is 
plain,  matter-of-fact  business.  If  you  are  willing 
to  give  me  your  name  within  three  weeks'  time, 
I  am  willing  to  marry  you  ;  if  not,  well.  I  want 
nothing  more  than  your  name.  That  is  a  clear 
proposal,  is  it  not  ?  " 


?Q2  THE  STORY  OF 

He  looked  up.  Was  it  contempt,  loathing, 
pity,  that  moved  in  the  eyes  above?  He  could 
not  tell ;  but  he  stooped  over  the  little  foot  and 
kissed  it. 

She  smiled. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?  "  he  whispered. 

"  Yes.  You  wish  to  serve  me,  and  to  have 
nothing  in  return  ! — you  shall  have  what  you 
wish."  She  held  out  her  fingers  for  Doss  to  lick. 
— "  Do  you  see  this  dog  ?  He  licks  my  hand  be- 
cause I  love  him  ;  and  I  allow  him  to.  Where  I 
do  not  love  I  do  not  allow  it.  I  believe  you  love 
me ;  I  too  could  love  so,  that  to  lie  under  the  foot 
of  the  thing  I  loved  would  be  more  heaven  than 
to  lie  in  the  breast  of  another. — Come  !  let  us  go. 
Carry  the  dog,"  she  added  ;  "he  will  not  bite  you 
if  I  put  him  in  your  arms.  So — do  not  let  his 
foot  hang  down." 

They  descended  the  "  kopje."  At  the  bottom 
he  whispered,  "  Would  you  not  take  my  arm,  the 
path  is  very  rough  ?  " 

She  rested  her  fingers  lightly  on  it. 

"  I  may  yet  change  my  mind  about  marrying 
you  before  the  time  comes.  It  is  very  likely. 
Mark  you  !  "  she  said,  turning  round  on  him  ;  "  I 
remember  your  words:  You  will  give  everything, 
and  expect  nothing.  The  knowledge  that  you,  are 
serving  me  is  to  be  your  reward ;  and  you  will 
have  that.  You  will  serve  me,  and  greatly.  The 
reasons  I  have  for  marrying  you  I  need  not  inform 
you  of  now ;  you  will  probably  discover  some  of. 
them  before  long." 

"  I  only  want  to  be  of  some  use  to  you,"  he  said, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  293 

It  seemed  to  Gregory  that  there  were  pulses  in 
the  soles  of  his  feet,  and  the  ground  shimmered 
as  on  a  summer's  day.  They  walked  round  the 
foot  of  the  "  kopje,"  and  past  the  Kaffir  huts. 
An  old  Kaffir  maid  knelt  at  the  door  of  one 
grinding  mealies.  That  she  should  see  him 
walking  so  made  his  heart  beat  so  fast  that  the 
hand  on  his  arm  felt  its  pulsation.  It  seemed 
that  she  must  envy  him. 

Just  then  Em  looked  out  again  at  the  back 
window  and  saw  them  coming.  She  cried  bit- 
terly all  the  while  she  sorted  the  skins. 

But  that  night  when  Lyndall  had  blown  her 
candle  out,  and  half  turned  round  to  sleep,  the 
door  of  Em's  bedroom  opened. 

"  I  want  to  say  good-night  to  you,  Lyndall," 
she  said,  coming  to  the  bedside  and  kneeling  down. 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep,"  Lyndall  replied. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  asleep  ;  but  I  had  such  a 
vivid  dream,"  she  said,  holding  the  other's  hands, 
"  and  that  awoke  me.  I  never  had  so  vivid  a 
dream  before. 

"  It  seemed  I  was  a  little  girl  again,  and  I 
came  somewhere  into  a  large  room.  On  a  bed 
in  the  corner  there  was  something  lying  dressed 
in  white,  and  its  little  eyes  were  shut,  and  its  little 
face  was  like  wax.  I  thought  it  was  a  doll,  and 
I  ran  forward  to  take  it ;  but  some  one  held  up 
her  finger  and  said,  *  Hush  !  it  is  a  little  dead 
baby/  And  1  said,  'Oh,  I  must  go  and  call 
Lyndall,  that  she  may  look  at  it  also.' 

"  And  they  put  their  faces  close  down  to  my 
ear  and  whispered,  '  It  is  LyndalPs  baby.' 


294  THE  STORY  OF 

"And  I  said,  *  She  cannot  be  grown  up  yet; 
she  is  only  a  little  girl  !  Where  is  she  ?  ■  And  f 
went  to  look  for  you,  but  I  could  not  find  you. 

"  And  when  I  came  to  some  people  who  were 
dressed  in  black,  I  asked  them  where  you  were 
and  they  looked  down  at  their  black  clothes,  and 
shook  their  heads,  and  said  nothing  ;  and  I  could 
not  find  you  anywhere.     And  then  I  awoke. 

"Lyndall,"  she  said,  putting  her  face  down 
upon  the  hands  she  held,  "  it  made  me  think 
about  that  time  when  we  were  little  girls  and 
used  to  play  together,  when  I  loved  you  better 
than  anything  else  in  the  world.  It  isn't  any 
one's  fault  that  they  love  you;  they  can't  help  it. 
And  it  isn't  your  fault ;  you  don't  make  them  love 
you.     I  know  it." 

"  Thank  you,  dear,"  Lyndall  said.  "  It  is  nice 
to  be  loved,  but  it  would  be  better  to  be  good." 

Then  they  wished  good-night,  and  Em _  went 
back  to  her  room.  Long  after  Lyndall  lay  in  the 
dark  thinking,  thinking,  thinking;  and  as  she 
turned  round  wearily  to  sleep  she  muttered, — 

"  There  are  some  wiser  in  their  sleeping  than 
in  their  waking." 

B  CHAPTER  IX. 

lyndall's  stranger. 

A  fire  is  burning  in  the  unused  hearth  of  tht 
cabin.  The  fuel  blazes  up,  and  lights  the  black 
rafters,  and  warms  the  faded  red  lions  on  the 
auilt,  and   fills  *&£   little  room  with  a  glow   of 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  295 

warmth  and  light  made  brighter  by  contrast,  for 
outside  the  night  is  chill  and  misty. 

Before  the  open  fireplace  sits  a  stranger,  his 
tall  slight  figure  reposing  in  a  broken  arm-chair, 
his  keen  blue  eyes  studying  the  fire  from  beneath 
delicately  penciled,  drooping  eyelids.  One  white 
hand  plays  thoughtfully  with  a  heavy  flaxen  mus- 
tache ;  yet  once  he  starts,  and  for  an  instant  the 
languid  lids  raise  themselves:  there  is  a  keen, 
intent  look  upon  the  face  as  he  listens  for  some- 
thing. Then  he  leans  back  in  his  chair,  fills  his 
glass  from  the  silver  flask  in  his  bag,  and  resumes 
his  old  posture. 

Presently  the  door  opens  noiselessly.  It  is 
Lyndall,  followed  by  Doss.  Quietly  as  she  enters 
he  hears  her,  and  turns. 

"  I  thought  you  were  not  coming." 

"  I  waited  till  all  had  gone  to  bed.  I  could  not 
come  before." 

She  removed  the  shawl  that  enveloped  her,  and 
the  stranger  rose  to  offer  her  his  chair ;  but  she  took 
her  seat  on  a  low  pile  of  sacks  before  the  window. 

"  I  hardly  see  why  I  should  be  outlawed  after 
this  fashion,"  he  said,  reseating  himself  and  draw- 
ing his  chair  a  little  nearer  to  her ;  "  these  are 
hardly  the  quarters  one  expects  to  find  after  trav- 
eling a  hundred  miles  in  answer  to  an  invitation." 

"  I  said,  '  Come  if  you  wish.' " 

"  And  I  did  wish.  You  give  me  a  cold  recep- 
tion." 

"  I  could  not  take  you  to  the  house.  Questions 
would  be  asked  which  I  could  not  answer  with- 
out prevarication." 


296 


THE  STORY  OF 


"  Your  conscience  is  growing  to  have  a  certain 
virgin  tenderness,"  he  said,  in  a  low  melodious 
voice, 

"  I  have  no  conscience.  I  spoke  one  deliber- 
ate lie  this  evening.  I  said  the  man  who  had 
come  looked  rough,  we  had  best  not  have  him  in 
the  house;  therefore  I  brought  him  here.  It 
was  a  deliberate  lie,  and  I  hate  lies.  I  tell  them 
if  I  must,  but  they  hurt  me." 

"  Well,  you  do  not  tell  lies  to  yourself,  at  all 
events.     You  are  candid,  so  far." 

She  interrupted  him. 

"  You  got  my  short  letter  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  why  I  came.  You  sent  a  very 
foolish  reply,  you  must  take  it  back.  Who  is  this 
fellow  you  talk  of  marrying  ?  " 

"  A  young  farmer." 

"  Lives  here  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  he  has  gone  to  town  to  get  things  for 
our  wedding." 

"  WThat  kind  of  a  fellow  is  he  ?  " 

"  A  fool." 

"  And  you  would  rather  marry  him  than  me  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  because  you  are  not  one." 

"  That  is  a  novel  reason  for  refusing  to  marry 
a  man,"  he  said,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  table, 
and  watching  her  keenly. 

"  It  is  a  wise  one,"  she  said  shortly.  "  If  I 
marry  him  I  shall  shake  him  off  my  hand  when  it 
suits  me.  If  I  remained  with  him  for  twelve 
months  he  would  never  have  dared  to  kiss  my 
hand.  As  far  as  I  wish  he  should  come,  he  comes, 
and  no  further.  Would  you  ask  me  what  you 
might  and  what  you  might  not  do  ?  " 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  297 

Her  companion  raised  the  mustache  with  a 
caressing  movement  from  his  lip  and  smiled.  It 
was  not  a  question  that  stood  in  need  of  any 
answer. 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  enter  on  this  semblance 
of  marriage  ? " 

"  Because  there  is  only  one  point  on  which  I 
have  a  conscience.     I  have  told  you  so." 

"  Then  why  not  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Because  if  once  you  have  me  you  would  hold 
me  fast.  I  shall  never  be  free  again."  She  drew 
a  long  low  breath. 

"  What  have  you  done  with  the  ring  I  gave 
you?  "  he  said. 

"  Sometimes  I  wear  it ;  then  I  take  it  off  and 
wish  to  throw  it  into  the  fire ;  the  next  day  I  put 
it  on  again,  and  sometimes  I  kiss  it." 

"  So  you  do  love  me  a  little  ?  " 

"  If  you  were  not  something  more  to  me  than 

any  other  man  in  the  world,   do  you  think " 

she  paused.  "  I  love  you  when  I  see  you  ;  but 
when  you  are  away  from  me  I  hate  you." 

"  Then  I  fear  I  must  be  singularly  invisible  at 
the  present  moment,"  he  said.  "Possibly  if  you 
were  to  look  less  fixedly  into  the  fire  you  might 
perceive  me." 

He  moved  his  chair  slightly  so  as  to  come  be- 
tween her  and  the  firelight.  She  raised  her  eyes 
to  his  face. 

"  If  you  do  love  me,"  he  asked  her,  "  why  will 
you  not  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Because,  if  I  had  been  married  to  you  for  a 
year,  I  should  have  come  to  my  senses-  and  seen 


298  THE  STORY  OF 

that  your  hands  and  your  voice  are  like  the  hands 
and  the  voice  of  any  other  man.  I  cannot  quite 
see  that  now.  But  it  is  all  madness.  You  call 
into  activity  one  part  of  my  nature  ;  there  is  a 
higher  part  that  you  know  nothing  of,  that  you 
never  touch.  If  I  married  you,  afterward  it  would 
arise  and  assert  itself,  and  I  should  hate  you 
always,  as  I  do  now  sometimes." 

"  I  like  you  when  you  grow  metaphysical  and 
analytical,"  he  said,  leaning  his  face  upon  his 
hand.  "  Go  a  little  further  in  your  analysis ;  say, 
'  I  love  you  with  the  right  ventricle  of  my  heart, 
but  not  the  left,  and  with  the  left  auricle  of  my 
heart,  but  not  the  right ;  and,  this  being  the  case, 
my  affection  for  you  is  not  of  a  duly  elevated,  intel- 
lectual, and  spiritual  nature.'  I  like  you  when 
you  get  philosophical." 

She  looked  quietly  at  him ;  he  was  trying  to 
turn  her  own  weapons  against  her. 

"You  are  acting  foolishly,  Lyndall,"  he  said, 
suddenly  changing  his  manner,  and  speaking 
earnestly,  "  most  foolishly.  You  are  acting  like 
a  little  child ;  I  am  surprised  at  you.  It  is  all 
very  well  to  have  ideals  and  theories  ;  but  you 
know  as  well  as  any  one  can  that  they  must  not 
be  carried  into  the  practical  world.  I  love  you. 
I  do  not  pretend  that  it  is  in  any  high,  super- 
human sense  ;  I  do  not  say  that  I  should  like  you 
as  well  if  you  were  ugly  and  deformed,  or  that  I 
should  continue  to  prize  you  whatever  your  treat- 
ment of  me  might  be,  or  to  love  you  though  you 
were  a  spirit  without  any  body  at  all.  That  is 
sentimentality   for   beardless  boys.     Every  one 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  299 

not  a  mere  child  (and  you  are  not  a  child,  except 
:n  years)  knows  what  love  between  a  man  and  a 
woman  means.  I  love  you  with  that  love.  I 
should  not  have  believed  it  possible  that  I  could 
have  brought  myself  twice  to  ask  of  any  woman 
to  be  my  wife,  more  especially  one  without  wealth, 
without  position,  and  who " 

*'  Yes — go  on.  Do  not  grow  sorry  for  me. 
Say  what  you  were  going  to — *  who  has  put  her- 
self into  my  power,  and  who  has  lost  the  right  of 
meeting  me  on  equal  terms.'  Say  what  you 
think.  At  least  we  two  may  speak  the  truth  to 
one  another." 

Then  she  added  after  a  pause, — 

"  I  believe  you  do  love  me,  as  much  as  you 
possibly  could  love  anything  ;  and  I  believe  that 
when  you  ask  me  to  marry  you  you  are  perform- 
ing the  most  generous  act  you  ever  have  per- 
formed in  the  course  of  your  life,  or  ever  will ; 
but,  at  the  same  time,  if  I  had  required  your 
generosity,  it  would  not  have  been  shown  me.  If, 
when  I  got  your  letter  a  month  ago,  hinting  at 
your  willingness  to  marry  me,  I  had  at  once 
written,  imploring  you  to  come,  you  would  have 
read  the  letter.  *  Poor  little  devil ! '  you  would 
have  said,  and  tore  it  up.  The  next  week  you 
would  have  sailed  for  Europe,  and  have  sent  me 
a  check  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  (which  I 
would  have  thrown  in  the  fire),  and  I  would  have 
heard  no  more  of  you."  The  stranger  smiled. 
"  But  because  I  declined  your  proposal,  and  wrote 
that  in  three  weeks  I  should  be  married  to  an- 
other, then  what  you  call  love  woke  up.     Your 


300  THE  STORY  OF 

man's  love  is  a  child's  love  for  butterflies.  Vou 
follow  till  you  have  the  thing,  and  break  it.  If 
you  have  broken  one  wing,  and  the  thing  flies 
still,  then  you  love  it  more  than  ever,  and  follow 
till  you  break  both  ;  then  you  are  satisfied  when 
it  lies  still  on  the  ground." 

'•  You  are  profoundly  wise  in  the  ways  of  the 
world  ;  you  have  seen  far  into  life,"  he  said. 

He  might  as  well  have  sneered  at  the  firelight. 

u  I  have  seen  enough  to  tell  me  that  you  love 
me  because  you  cannot  bear  to  be  resisted,  and 
want  to  master  me.  You  liked  me  at  first  be- 
cause I  treated  you  and  all  men  with  indifference. 
You  resolved  to  have  me  because  I  seemed  unat- 
tainable.    That  is  all  your  love  means." 

He  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  stoop  down  and 
kiss  the  little  lips  that  defied  him ;  but  he 
restrained  himself.  He  said  quietly,  "  And  you 
loved  me ?  " 

'*'  Because  you  are  strong.  You  are  the  first 
man  I  ever  was  afraid  of.  And  n — a  dreamy  look 
came  into  her  face — "  because  I  like  to  experience, 
I  like  to  by.     You  don't  understand  that." 

He  smiled. 

"  Well,  since  you  will  not  marry  me,  may  I 
inquire  what  your  intentions  are,  the  plan  you 
wrote  of.  You  asked  me  to  come  and  hear  it, 
and  I  have  come." 

"  I  said,  '  Come  if  you  wish.'  If  you  agree  to 
it,  well ;  if  not,  I  marry  on  Monday." 

■  Well  ? " 

She  was  still  looking  beyond  him  at  the  fire. 

;' I  cannot  marry  you," 'she  said  slowly,  "be- 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  301 

cause  I  cannot  be  tied ;  but,  if  you  wish,  you 
may  take  me  away  with  you,  and  take  care  of 
me  •  then  when  we  do  not  love  any  more  we  can 
say  good-bye.  I  will  not  go  down  country,'*  she 
added ;  "  I  will  not  go  to  Europe.  You  must 
take  me  to  the  Transvaal.  That  is  out  of  the 
World.  People  we  meet  there  we  need  not  see 
again  in  our  future  lives." 

"Oh, -my  darling,"  he  said,  bending  tenderly, 
and  holding  his  hand  out  to  her,  "why  will  you 
not  give  yourself  entirely  to  me  ?  One  day  you 
will  desert  me  and  go  to  another."  _    . 

She  shook  her  head  without  looking  at  him. 
"  No,  life  is  too  long.     But  I  will  go  with  you/ 
"  When  ? " 

"  To-morrow.  I  have  told  them  that  before 
daylight  I  go  to  the  next  farm.  I  will  write  from 
the  town  and  tell  them  the  facts.  I  do  not  want 
them  to  trouble  me  ;  I  want  to  shake  myself  free 
of  these  old  surroundings ;  I  want  them  to  lose 
sight  of  me.  You  can  understand  that  is  neces- 
sary for  me." 

He  seemed  lost  in  consideration  ;  then  he  said, 
"  It  is  better  to  have  you  on  those  conditions 
than  not  at  all.  If  you  will  have  it,  let  it  be  so." 
He  sat  looking  at  her.  On  her  face  was  the 
weary  look  that  rested  there  so  often  now  when 
she  sat  alone.  Two  months  had  not  passed  since 
they  parted  ;  but  the  time  had  set  its  mark  on 
her.  He  looked  at  her  carefully,  from  the  brown, 
smooth  head  to  the  little  crossed  feet  on  the  floor. 
A  worn  look  had  grown  over  the  little  face,  and 
it  made  its  charm  for  him  stronger.     For  pain 


302  THE  STORY  OF 

and  time,  which  trace  deep  lines  and  write  a  story 
on  a  human  face,  have  a  strangely  different  effect 
on  one  face  and  another.  The  face  that  is  only 
fair,  even  very  fair,  they  mar  and  flaw ;  but  to 
the  face  whose  beauty  is  the  harmony  between 
that  which  speaks  from  within  and  the  form 
through  which  it  speaks,  power  is  added  by  alt 
that  causes  the  outer  man  to  bear  more  deeply 
the  impress  of  the  inner.  The  pretty  woman 
fades  with  the  roses  on  her  cheeks,  and  the  girl- 
hood that  lasts  an  hour;  the  beautiful  woman 
finds  her  fullness  of  bloom  only  when  a  past  has 
written  itself  on  her,  and  her  power  is  then  most 
irresistible  when  it  seems  going. 

From  under  their  half-closed  lids  the  keen  eyes 
looked  down  at  her.  Her  shoulders  were  bent ; 
fcr  a  moment  the  Mttle  figure  had  forgotten  its 
queenly  bearing,  and  drooped  wearily  ;  the  wide 
dark  eyes  watched  the  fire  very  softly. 

It  certainly  was  not  in  her  power  to  resist  him, 
nor  any  strength  in  her  that  made  his  own  at  that 
moment  grow  soft  as  he  looked  at  her. 

He  touched  one  little  hand  that  rested  on  her 
knee. 

"  Poor  little  thing !  "  he  said ;  "  you  are  only  a 
child." 

She  did  not  draw  her  hand  away  from  his,  and 
looked  up  at  him. 

"  You  are  very  tired  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

She  looked  into  his  eyes  as  a  little  child  might 
Whom  a  long  day's  play  had  saddened. 

He  lifted  her  gently  up,  and  sat  her  on  his  knee. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  303 

"  Poor  little  thing  S  "  he  said. 

She  turned  her  face  to  his  shoulder,  and  buried 
it  against  his  neck  ;  he  wound  his  strong  arm 
about  her,  and  held  her  close  to  him.  When  she 
had  sat  for  a  long  while,  he  drew  with  his  hand 
her  face  down,  and  held  it  against  his  arm.  He 
kissed  it,  and  then  put  it  back  in  its  old  resting- 
place.  ■ 

"  Don't  you  want  to  talk  to  me  ? 

"No." 

"  Have  you  forgotten  the  night  in  the  avenue  i 

He  could  feel  that  she  shook  her  head. 

"  Do  you  want  to  be  quiet  now  ?  " 

"Yes." 

They  sat  quite  still,  excepting  that  only  some- 
times he  raised  her  fingers  softly  to  his  mouth. 

Doss,  who  had  been  asleep  in  the  corner,  wak- 
ing  suddenly,  planted  himself  before  them,  his 
wiry  legs  moving  nervously,  his  yellow  eyes  filled 
with  anxiety.  He  was  not  at  all  sure  that  she 
was  not  being  retained  in  her  present  position 
against  her  will,  and  was  not  a  little  relieved 
when  she  sat  up  and  held  out  her  hand  for  the 
shawl. 

"I  must  go,"  she  said. 

The  stranger  wrapped  the  shawl  very  carefully 

about  her.  . 

"  Keep  it  close  around  your  face,  i^yndall ;  it 
is  very  damp  outside.  Shall  I  walk  with  you  to 
the  house  ? "  " 

"No.  Lie  down  and  rest;  I  will  come  and 
wake  you  at  three  o'clock." 

She  lifted  her  face  that  he  might  kiss  it,  and, 


3°4 


THE  STORY  OF 


when  he  had  kissed  it  once,  she  still  held  it  that 
he  might  kiss  it  again.  Then  he  let  her  out.  He 
had  seated  himself  at  the  fireplace,  when  she  re-- 
opened  the  door. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  anything  ? " 

"  No." 

She  gave  one  long,  lingering  look  at  the  old 
room.  When  she  was  gone,  and  the  door  shut, 
the  stranger  filled  his  glass,  and  sat  at  the  table 
sipping  it  thoughtfully. 

The  night  outside  was  misty  and  damp ;  the 
faint  moonlight,  trying  to  force  its  way  through 
the  thick  air,  made  darkly  visible  the  outlines  of 
the  buildings.  The  stones  and  walls  were  moist, 
and  now  and  then  a  drop,  slowly  collecting,  fell 
from  the  eaves  to  the  ground.  Doss,  not  liking 
the  change  from  the  cabin's  warmth,  ran  quicklj 
to  the  kitchen  door-step  ;  but  his  mistress  walked 
slowly  past  him,  and  took  her  way  up  the  winding 
footpath  that  ran  beside  the  stone  wall  of  the 
camps.  When  she  came  to  the  end  of  the  last 
camp,  she  threaded  her  way  among  the  stones  and 
bushes  till  she  reached  the  German's  grave.  Why 
she  had  come  there  she  hardly  knew ;  she  stood 
looking  down.  Suddenly  she  bent  and  put  one 
hand  on  the  face  of  a  wet  stone. 

"  I  shall  never  come  to  you  again,"  she  said. 

Then  she  knelt  on  the  ground,  and  leaned  her 
face  upon  the  stones. 

"  Dear  old  man,  good  old  man,  I  am  so  tired  !  " 
she  said  (for  we  will  come  to  the  dead  to  tell 
secrets  we  would  never  have  told  to  the  living). 
il  I  am  so  tired.     There  is  light,  there  is  warmth," 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


305 


she  wailed;  "why  am  I  alone  so  hard,  so  cold? 
I  am  so  weary  of  myself  !  It  is  eating  my  soul 
to  its  core, — self,  self,  self  !  I  cannot  bear  this 
life !  I  cannot  breathe,  I  cannot  live  !  Will 
nothing  free  me  from  myself  ? "  She  pressed  her 
cheek  against  the  wooden  post.  "  I  want  to  love  ! 
I  want  something  great  and  pure  to  lift  me  to  it- 
self !  Dear  old  man,  I  cannot  bear  it  any  more  ! 
I  am  so  cold,  so  hard,  so  hard ;  will  no  one  help 
me?" 

The  water  gathered  slowly  on  her  shawl,  and 
fell  on  to  the  wet  stones  ;  but  she  lay  there  cry- 
ing bitterly.  For  so  the  living  soul  will  cry  to 
the  dead,  and  the  creature  to  its  God ;  and  of  all 
this  crying  there  comes  nothing.  The  lifting  up 
of  the  hands  brings  no  salvation  ;  redemption  is 
from  within,  and  neither  from  God  nor  man  :  it 
is  wrought  out  by  the  soul  itself,  with  suffering 
and  through  time. 

Doss,  on  the  kitchen  door-step,  shivered,  and 
wondered  where  his  mistress  stayed  so  long ;  and 
once,  sitting  sadly  there  in  the  damp,  he  had 
dropped  asleep,  and  dreamed  that  old  Otto  gave 
him  a  piece  of  bread,  and  patted  him  on  the  head, 
and  when  he  woke  his  teeth  chattered,  and  he 
moved  to  another  stone  to  see  if  it  was  drier.  At 
last  he  heard  his  mistress's  step,  and  they  went 
into  the  house  together.  She  lit  a  candle,  and 
walked  to  the  Boer-woman's  bedroom.  On  a  nail 
under  the  lady  in  pink  hung  the  key  of  the  ward- 
robe. She  took  it  down  and  opened  the  great 
press.  From  a  little  drawer  she  took  fifty  pounds 
(all  she  had  in  the  world),  relocked  the  door,  and 


306  THE  STORY  OF 

turned  to  hang  up  the  key.  Then  she  paused, 
hesitated.  The  marks  of  tears  were  still  on  her 
face,  but  she  smiled. 

"  Fifty  pounds  for  a  lover  !  A  noble-reward  !  " 
she  said,  and  opened  the  wardrobe  and  returned 
the  notes  to  the  drawer,  where  Em  might  find 
them. 

Once  in  her  own  room,  she  arranged  the  few 
articles  she  intended  to  take  to-morrow,  burnt  her 
old  letters,  and  then  went  back  to  the  front  room 
to  look  at  the  time.  There  were  two  hours  yet 
before  she  must  call  him.  She  sat  down  at  the 
dressing-table  to  wait,  and  leaned  her  elbows  on 
it,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands.  The  glass 
reflected  the  little  brown  head  with  its  even  part- 
ing, and  the  tiny  hands  on  which  it  rested.  "  One 
day  I  will  love  something  utterly,  and  then  I  will 
be  better,"  she  said  once.  Presently  she  looked 
up.  The  large  dark  eyes  from  the  glass  looked 
back  at  her.     She  looked  deep  into  them. 

"  We  are  all  alone,  you  and  I,"  she  whispered  ; 
"  no  one  helps  us,  no  one  understands  us  ;  but 
we  will  help  ourselves."  The  eyes  looked  back 
at  her.  There  was  a  world  of  assurance  in  their 
still  depths.  So  they  had  looked  at  her  ever 
since  she  could  remember,  when  it  was  but  a  small 
child's  face  above  a  blue  pinafore.  "  We  shall 
never  be  quite  alone,  you  and  I,"  she  said  ;  "  we 
shall  always  be  together,  as  we  were  when  we  were 
little." 

The  beautiful  eyes  looked  into  the  depths  of 
Jaer  soul.  . 

"  We  are  not  afraid  ;  we  will  help  ourselves  !  " 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  307 

she  said.  She  stretched  out  her  hand  and 
pressed  it  over  them  on  the  glass.  "  Dear  eyes  ! 
we  will  never  be  quite  alone  till  they  part  us  ; — till 
then  !  " 

CHAPTER  X. 

GREGORY   ROSE    HAS   AN    IDEA. 

Gregory  Rose  was  in  the  loft  putting  it  neat. 
Outside  the  rain  poured ;  a  six  months'  drought 
had  broken,  and  the  thirsty  plain  was  drenched 
with  water.  What  it  could  not  swallow  ran  off 
in  mad  rivulets  to  the  great  "  sloot,"  that  now 
foamed  like  an  angry  river  across  the  flat.  ■  Even 
the  little  furrow  between  the  farm-house  and  the 
kraals  was  now  a  stream,  knee-deep,  which  almost 
bore  away  the  Kaffir  women  who  crossed  it.  It 
had  rained  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  still  the 
rain  poured  on.  The  fowls  had  collected — a 
melancholy  crowd — in  and  about  the  wagon-house, 
and  the  solitary  gander,  who  alone  had  survived 
the  six  months'  want  of  water,  walked  hither  and 
thither,  printing  his  webbed  foot-marks  on  the 
mud,  to  have  them  washed  out  the  next  instant 
by  the  pelting  rain,  which  at  eleven  o'clock  still 
beat  on  the  walls  and  roofs  with  unabated  ardor. 

Gregory,  as  he  worked  in  the  loft,  took  no 
notice  of  it  beyond  stuffing  a  sack  into  the  broken 
pane  to  keep  it  out;  and,  in  spite  of  the  pelt  and 
patter,.  Em's  clear  voice  might  be  heard  through 
the  open  trap-door  from  the  dining-room,  where- 
she  sat  at  work,  singing  the  "  Blue  Water  n — 


308  THE  STORY  OF 

"  And  take  me  away, 
And  take  me  away, 
And  take  me  away, 
To  the  Blue  Water" 

that  quaint,  childish  song  of  the  people,  that  has 
a  world  of  sweetness,  and  sad,  vague  yearning 
tvhen  sung  over  and  over  dreamily  by  a  woman's 
voice  as  she  sits  alone  at  her  work.  But  Gregory 
heard  neither  that  nor  yet  the  loud  laughter  of  the 
Kaffir  maids,  that  every  now  and  again  broke 
through  from  the  kitchen,  where  they  joked  and 
worked.  Of  late  Gregory  had  grown  strangely 
impervious  to  the  sounds  and  sights  about  him. 
His  lease  had  run  out,  but  Em  had  said,  "  Do  not 
renew  it ;  I  need  one  to  help  me  ;  just  stay  on." 
And  she  had  added,  "You  must  not  remain  in 
your  own  little  house  ;  live  with  me  ;  you  can  look 
after  my  ostriches  better  so." 

And  Gregory  did  not  thank  her.  What  differ- 
ence did  it  make  to  him,  paying  rent  or  not,  living 
there  or  not ;  it  was  all  one.  But  yet  he  came. 
Em  wished  that  he  would  still  sometimes  talk  of 
the  strength  and  master-right  of  man ;  but  Greg- 
ory was  as  one  smitten  on  the  cheek-bone.  She 
might  do  what  she  pleased,  he  would  find  no  fault, 
had  no  word  to  say.  He  had  forgotten  that  it  is 
man's  right  to  rule.  On  that  rainy  morning  he 
had  lighted  his  pipe  at  the  kitchen  fire,  and  when 
breakfast  was  over  stood  in  the  front  door  watch- 
ing the  water  rush  down  the  road  till  the  pipe 
died  out  in  his  mouth.  Em  saw  she  must  do 
something  for  him,  and  found  him  a  large  calico 
duster.     He  had   sometimes   talked   of  putting 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  309 

tbe  loft  neat,  and  to-day  she  could  find  nothing 
else  for  him  to  do.  So  she  had  the  ladder  put  to 
the  trap-door  that  he  need  not  go  out  in  the  wet, 
and  Gregory  with  the  broom  and  duster  mounted 
to  the  loft.  Once  at  work  he  worked  hard.  He 
dusted  down  the  very  rafters,  and  cleaned  the 
broken  candle-molds  and  bent  forks  that  had 
stuck  in  the  thatch  for  twenty  years.  He  placed 
the  black  bottles  neatly  in  rows  on  an  old  box  in 
the  corner,  and  piled  the  skins  on  one  another, 
and  sorted  the  rubbish  in  all  the  boxes ;  and  at 
eleven  o'clock  his  work  was  almost  done.  He 
seated  himself  on  the  packing-case  which  had 
once  held  Waldo's  books,  and  proceeded  to  ex- 
amine the  contents  of  another  which  he  had  not 
yet  looked  at.  It  was  carelessly  nailed  down. 
He  loosened  one  plank,  and  began  to  lift  out  vari- 
ous articles  of  female  attire — old-fashioned  caps, 
aprons,  dresses  with  long-pointed  bodies  such  as 
he  remembered  to  have  seen  his  mother  wear 
when  he  was  a  little  child.  He  shook  them  out 
carefully  to  see  there  were  no  moths,  and  then  sat 
down  to  fold  them  up  again  one  by  one.  They 
had  belonged  to  Em's  mother,  and  the  box,  as 
packed  at  her  death,  had  stood  untouched  and 
forgotten  these  long  years.  She  must  have  been 
a  tall  woman,  that  mother  of  Em's,  for  when  he 
stood  up  to  shake  out  a  dress  the  neck  was  on  a 
level  with  his,  and  the  skirt  touched  the  ground. 
Gregory  laid  a  night-cap  out  on  his  knee,  and 
began  rolling  up  the  strings ;  but  presently  his 
fingers  moved  slower  and  slower,  then  his  chin 
rested  on  his  breast,  and  finally  the  imploring 


310  THE  STORY  OF 

blue  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  frill  abstractly.  When 
Em's  voice  called  to  him  from  the  foot  of  the  lad- 
der he  started,  and  threw  the  night-cap  behind 
him. 

She  was  only  come  to  tell  him  that  his  cup  of 
soup  was  ready  ;  and,  when  he  could  hear  that  she 
was  gone,  he  picked  up  the  night-cap  again,  and 
a  great  brown  sun-kappje — just  such  a  "  kappje  " 
and  such  a  dress  as  one  of  those  he  remembered 
to  have  seen  a  sister-of-mercy  wear.  Gregory's 
mind  was  very  full  of  thought.  He  took  down  a 
fragment  of  an  old  looking-glass  from  behind  a 
beam,  and  put  the  "  kappje  "  on.  His  beard  looked 
somewhat  grotesque  under  it ;  he  put  up  his  hand 
to  hide  it — that  was  better.  The  blue  eyes  looked 
out  with  the  mild  gentleness  that  became  eyes 
looking  out  from  under  a  "  kappje."  Next  he  took 
the  brown  dress,  and  looking  round  furtively, 
slipped  it  over  his  head.  He  had  just  got  his 
arms  in  the  sleeves,  and  was  trying  to  hook  up 
the  back,  when  an  increase  in  the  patter  of  the 
rain  at  the  window  made  him  drag  it  off  hastily. 
When  he  perceived  there  was  no  one  coming  he 
tumbled  the  things  back  into  the  box,  and,  cover- 
ing it  carefully,  went  down  the  ladder. 

Em  was  still  at  her  work,  trying  to  adjust  a 
new  needle  in  the  machine.  Gregory  drank  his 
soup,  and  then  sat  before  her,  an  awful  and  mys- 
terious look  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  going  to  town  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

"I'm  almost  afraid  you  won't  be  able  to  go," 
said  Em,  who  was  intent  on  her  needle  ;  "  I  don't 
think  it  is  goin£  to  leave  off  to-day." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


3" 


"  I  am  going, "  said  Gregory. 

Em  looked  up. 

"  But  the  *  sloots  '  are  as  full  as  rivers — you 
cannot  go.     We  can  wait  for  the  post,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  not  going  for  the  post,"  said  Gregory 
impressively. 

Em  looked  for  explanation ;  none  came. 

"  When  will  you  be  back  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  coming'back." 

"  Are  you  going  to  your  friends  ? " 

Gregory  waited,  then  caught  her  by  the  wrist. 

"  Look  here,  Em,"  he  said  between  his  teeth, 
"I  can't  stand  it  any  more.     I  am  going  to  her." 

Since  that  day  when  he  had  come  home  and 
found  Lyndall  gone,  he  had  never  talked  of  her, 
but  Em  knew  who  it  was  who  needed  to  be  spoken 
of  by  no  name. 

She  said,  when  he  had  released  her  hand, 

"  But  you  do  not  know  where  she  is  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  She  was  in  Bloemfontein  when  I 
heard  last.  I  will  go  there,  and  I  will  find  out 
where  she  went  then,  and  then,  and  then  1  I 
will  have  her." 

Em  turned  the  wheel  quickly,  and  the  ill- 
adjusted  needle  sprang  into  twenty  fragments, 

"  Gregory,"  she  said,  "  she  does  not  want  us  ; 
she  told  us  so  clearly  in  the  letter  she  wrote." 
A  flush  rose  on  her  face  as  she  spoke.  "  It  will 
only  be  pain  to  you,  Gregory.  Will  she  like  to 
have  you  near  her  ? " 

There  was  an  answer  he  might  have  made,  but 
it  was  his  secret,  and  he  did  not  choose  to  share 
it.    He  said  only, 


3i2  THE  STORY  OP 

"  I  am  going." 

"  Will  you  be  gone  long,  Gregory  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know ;  perhaps  I  shall  never  come 
back.  Do  what  you  please  with  my  things.  I 
cannot  stay  here  ! "" 

He  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  People  say,  forget,  forget !  "  he  cried,  pacing 
the  room.  "  They  are  mad  !  they  are  fools  !  Do 
they  say  so  to  men  who  are  dying  for  thirst — 
forget,  forget?  Why  is  it  only  to  us  they  say 
so  ?  It  is  a  lie  to  say  that  time  makes  it  easy  ; 
it  is  afterward,  afterward,  that  it  eats  in  at  your 
heart !  " 

"All  these  months,"  he  cried  bitterly,  _ "  I 
have  lived  here  quietly,  day  after  day,  as  if  I 
cared  for  what  I  ate,  and  what  I  drank,  and  what 
I  did  !  I  care  for  nothing  !  I  cannot  bear  it ! 
I  will  not !  Forget !  forget !  "  ejaculated  Gregory. 
"  You  can  forget  all  the  world,  but  you  cannot 
forget  yourself.  Wlien  one  thing  is  more  to  you 
than  yourself,  how  are  you  to  forget  it  ? " 

"  I  read,"  he  said — "  yes  ;  and  then  I  come  to 
a  word  she  used,  and  it  is  all  back  with  me 
again  !  I  go  to  count  my  sheep,  and  I  see  her 
face  before  me,  and  I  stand  and  let  the  sheep 
run  by.  I  look  at  you,  and  in  your  smile,  a 
something  at  the  corner  of  your  lips,  I  see  her. 
How  can  I  forget  her  when,  whenever  I  turn, 
she  is  there,  and  not  there  ?  I  cannot,  I  will 
not,  live  where  I  do  not  see  her." 

"  1  know  what  you  think,"  he  said,  turning 
upon  Em.  "  You  think  I  am  mad  ;  you  think  I 
am  going  to  see  whether  she  will  not  like  me !     I 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  313 

am  not  so  foolish.  I  should  have  known  at  first 
she  never  could  suffer  me.  Who  am  I,  what  am 
I,  that  she  should  look  at  me  ?  It  was  right 
that  she  left  me  ;  right  that  she  should  not  look 
at  me.  If  any  one  says  it  is  not,  it  is  a  lie  !  I 
am  not  going  to  speak  to  her,"  he  added— "only 
to  see  her,  only  to  stand  sometimes  in  a  place 
where  she  has  stood  before." 

CHAPTER  XI. 

AN  UNFINISHED  LETTER. 

Gregory  Rose  had  been  gone  seven  months. 
Em  sat  alone  on  a  white  sheepskin  before  the 
fire. 

The  August  night-wind,  weird  and  shrill, 
howled  round  the  chimneys  and  through  the 
crannies,  and  in  walls  and  doors,  and  ■  uttered  a 
long  low  cry  as  it  forced  its  way  among  the  clefts 
of  the  stones  on  the  "kopje."  It  was  a  wild 
night.  The  prickly  pear-tree,  stiff  and  upright  as 
it  held  its  arms,  felt  the  wind's  might,  and 
knocked  its  flat  leaves  heavily  together,  till  great 
branches  broke  off.  The  Kaffirs,  as  they  slept 
in  their  straw  huts,  whispered  one  to  another  that 
before  morning  there  would  not  be  an  armful  of 
thatch  left  on  the  roofs ;  and  the  beams  of  the 
wagon-house  creaked  and  groaned  as  if  it  were 
heavy  work  to  resist  the  importunity  of  the 
wind. 

Em  had  not  gone  to  bed.    Who  could  sleep  on 


314  THE  STORY  OF 

a  night  like  this  ?  So  in  the  dining-room  she  had 
lighted  a  fire,  and  sat  on  the  ground  before  it, 
turning  the  roaster-cakes  that  lay  on  the  coals  to 
bake.  It  would  save  work  in  the  morning  ;  and 
she  blew  out  the  light  because  the  wind  through 
the  window-chinks  made  it  flicker  and  run  ;  and 
she  sat  singing  to  herself  as  she  watched  the 
cakes.  They  lay  at  one  end  of  the  wide  hearth 
on  a  bed  of  coals,  and  at  the  other  end  a  fire 
burnt  up  steadily,  casting  its  amber  glow  over 
Em's  light  hair  and  black  dress,  with  the  ruffle  of 
crape  about  the  neck,  and  over  the  white  curls  of 
the  sheepskin  on  which  she  sat. 

Louder  and  more  fiercely  yet  howled  the  storm  ; 
but  Em  sang  on,  and  heard  nothing  but  the  words 
of  her  song,  and  heard  them  only  faintly,  as  some- 
thing restful.  It  was  an  old,  childish  song  she 
had  often  heard  her  mother  sing  long  ago — 

"  Where  the  reeds  dance  by  the  river, 
Where  the  willow's  song  is  said, 
On  the  face  of  the  morning  water, 
Is  reflected  a  white  flower's  head." 

She  folded  her  hands  and  sang  the  next  verse 
dreamily — 

"  Where  the  reeds  shake  by  the  river. 
Where  the  moonlight's  sheen  is  shed, 
On  the  face  of  the  sleeping  water, 
Two  leaves  of  a  white  flower  float  dead. 
Dead,  Dead,  Dead !  " 

She  echoed  the  refrain  softly  till  it  died  away, 
and  then  repeated  it.  It  was  as  if,  unknown  to 
herself,  it  harmonized  with  the  picture*  and 
thoughts  that  sat  with  her  there  alone  in  t>  *  fire- 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


3*5 


light.  She  turned  the  cakes  over,  while  the  wind 
hurled  down  a  row  of  bricks  from  the  gable,  and 
made  the  walls  tremble. 

Presently  she  paused  and  listened  ;  there  was 
a  sound  as  of  something  knocking  at  the  back 
doorway.  But  the  wind  had  raised  its  level 
higher,  and  she  went  on  with  her  work.  At  last 
the  sound  was  repeated.  Then  she  rose,  lit  the 
candle  at  the  fire,  and  went  to  see.  Only  to  sat- 
isfy herself,  she  said,  that  nothing  could  be  out 
on  such  a  night. 

She  opened  the  door  a  little  way,  and  held  the 
light  behind  her  to  defend  it  from  the  wind. 
The  figure  of  a  tall  man  stood  there,  and  before 
she  could  speak  he  had  pushed  his  way  in,  and 
was  forcing  the  door  to  close  behind  him. 

"  Waldo  !  "  she  cried  in  astonishment. 

He  had  been  gone  more  than  a  year  and  a 
half. 

"  You  did  not  expect  to  see  me,"  he  answered, 
as  he  turned  toward  her ;  "  I  should  have  slept 
in  the  out-house,  and  not  troubled  you  to-night ; 
but  through  the  shutter  I  saw  glimmerings  of  a 
light." 

"  Come  in  to  the  fire,"  she  said  ;  "  it  is  a  ter- 
rific night  for  any  creature  to  be  out.  Shall  we 
not  go  and  fetch  your  things  in  first  ? "  she 
added. 

"  I  have  nothing  but  this,"  he  said,  motioning 
to  the  little  bundle  in  his  hand. 

"  Your  horse  ? " 

"  Is  dead." 

He  sat  down  on  the  bench  before  the  fire. 


316  THE  STORY  OF 

"  The  cakes  are  almost  ready,"  she  said ;  "  I 
will  get  you  something  to  eat.  Where  have  you 
been  wandering  all  this  while  ?  " 

"  Up  and  down,  up  and  down,"  he  answered 
wearily ;  "  and  now  the  whim  has  seized  me  to 
come  back  here.  Em,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand 
on  her  arm  as  she  passed  him,  "  have  you  heard 
from  Lyndall  lately  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Em,  turning  quickly  from  him. 

"  Where  is  she  ?  I  had  one  letter  from  her, 
but  that  is  almost  a  year  ago  now — just  when  she 
left.     Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  In  the  Transvaal.  I  will  go  and  get  you 
some  supper  ;  we  can  talk  afterward." 

"Can  you  give  me  her  exact  address  ?  I  want 
to  write  to  her?  " 

But  Em  had  gone  into  the  next  room. 

When  food  was  on  the  table  she  knelt  down 
before  the  fire,  turning  the  cakes,  babbling  rest- 
lessly, eagerly,  now  of  this,  now  of  that.  She 
was  glad  to  see  him — Tant'  Sannie  was  coming 
soon  to  show  her  her  new  baby — he  must  stay  on 
the  farm  now,  and  help  her.  And  Waldo  him- 
self was  well  content  to  eat  his  meal  in  silence, 
asking  no  more  questions. 

"  Gregory  is  coming  back  next  week,"  she  said; 
"he  will  have  been  gone  just  a  hundred  and 
three  days  to-morrow.  I  had  a  letter  from  him 
yesterday." 

"  Where  has  he  been  ?  " 

But  his  companion  stooped  to  lift  a  cake  from 
the  fire. 

"  How  the  wind  blows  !     One  can  hardly  hear 


AN  A FRICA N  FA  RM.  3 1 7 

one's  own  voice,"  she  said.  "  Take  this  warm 
cake ;  no  one's  cakes  are  like  mine.  Why,  you 
have  eaten  nothing  !  " 

"  I  am  a  little  weary,"  he  said ;  "  the  wind  was 
mad  to-night." 

He  folded  his  arms,  and  rested  his  head 
against  the  fireplace,  while  she  removed  the 
dishes  from  the  table.  On  the  mantel-piece  stood 
an  ink-pot  and  some  sheets  of  paper.  Presently 
he  took  them  down  and  turned  up  the  corner  of 
the  table-cloth. 

"  I  will  write  a  few  lines,"  he  said,  "  till  you 
are  ready  to  sit  down  and  talk." 

Em,  as  she  shook  out  the  table-cloth,  watched 
him  bending  intently  over  his  paper.  He  had 
changed  much.  His  face  had  grown  thinner; 
his  cheeks  were  almost  hollow,  though  they  were 
covered  by  a  dark  growth  of  beard. 

She  sat  down  on  the  skin  beside  him,  and  felt 
the  little  bundle  on  the  bench  ;  it  was  painfully 
small  and  soft.  Perhaps  it  held  a  shirt  and  a 
book,  but  nothing  more.  The  old  black  hat  had 
a  piece  of  unhemmed  muslin  twisted  round  it, 
and  on  his  elbow  was  a  large  patch  so  fixed  on 
with  yellow  thread  that  her  heart  ached.  Only 
his  hair  was  not  changed,  and  hung  in  silky 
beautiful  waves  almost  to  his  shoulders.  To- 
morrow she  would  take  the  ragged  edge  off  his 
collar,  and  put  a  new  band  round  his  hat.  She 
did  not  interrupt  him,  but  she  wondered  how  it 
was  that  he  sat  to  write  so  intently  after  his  long 
weary  walk.  He  was  not  tired  now ;  his  pen  hurried 
quickly  and  restlessly  over  the  paper,  and  his  eye 


318  THE  STORY  OF 

was  bright.  Presently  Em  raised  her  hand  to 
her  breast,  where  lay  the  letter  yesterday  had 
brought  her.  Soon  she  had  forgotten  him,  as  en- 
tirely as  he  had  forgotten  her ;  each  was  in  his 
own  world  with  his  own.  He  was  writing  to 
Lyndall.  He  would  tell  her  all  he  had  seen,  all 
he  had  done,  though  it  were  nothing  worth  relat- 
ing. He  seemed  to  have  come  back  to  her,  and 
to  be  talking  to  her  now  he  sat  there  in  the  old 
house. 

" and  then  I  got   to   the   next   town,  and 

my  horse  was  tired,  so  I  could  go  no  further,  and 
looked  for  work.  A  shop-keeper  agreed  to  hire 
me  as  salesman.  He  made  me  sign  a  promise 
to  remain  six  months,  and  he  gave  me  a  little 
empty  room  at  the  back  of  the  store  to  sleep  in. 
I  had  still  three  pounds  of  my  own,  and  when 
you  have  just  come  from  the  country  three 
pounds  seems  a  great  deal. 

"When  I  had  been  in, the  shop  three  days  I 
wanted  to  go  away  again'.  A  clerk  in  a  shop  has 
the  lowest  work  to  do  of  all  people.  It  is  much 
better  to  break  stones :  you  have  the  blue  sky 
above  you,  and  only  the  stones  to  bend  to.  I 
asked  my  master  to  let  me  go,  and  I  offered  to 
give  him  my  two  pounds  and  the  bag  of  mealies 
I  had  bought  with  the  other  pound  ;  but  he  would 
not. 

"  I  found  out  afterward  he  was  only  giving  me 
half  as  much  as  he  gave  to  the  others — that  was 
why.  I  had  fear  when  I  looked  at  the  other 
clerks  that  I  would  at  last  become  like  them. 
All  day  they  were  bowing  and  smirking  to  the 


AN  A FRICA N  FA  RM.  3 1 9 

women  who  came  in ;  smiling,  when  all  they 
wanted  was  to  get  their  money  from  them.  They 
used  to  run  and  fetch  the  dresses  and  ribbons  to 
show  them,  and  they  seemed  to  me  like  worms 
with  oil  on.  There  was  one  respectable  thing  in 
that  store — it  was  the  Kaffir  storeman.  His  work 
was  to  load  and  unload,  and  he  never  needed 
to  smile,  except  when  he  liked,  and  he  never  told 
lies. 

"  The  other  clerks  gave  me  the  name  of  Old 
Salvation  ;  but  there  was  one  person  I  liked  very 
much.  He  was  clerk  in  another  store.  He  often 
went  past  the  door.  He  seemed  to  me  not  like 
others — his  face  was  bright  and  fresh  like  a  little 
child's.  When 'he  came  to  the  shop  I  felt  I 
liked  him.  One  day  I  saw  a  book  in  his  pocket, 
and  that  made  me  feel  near  him.  I  asked  him  if 
he  was  fond  of  reading,  and  he  said  yes,  when 
there  was  nothing  else  to  do.  The  next  day  he 
came  to  me,  and  asked  me  if  I  did  not  feel 
lonely ;  he  never  saw  me  going  out  with  the 
other  fellows  ;  he  would  come  and  see  me  that 
evening,  he  said. 

"  I  was  glad,  and  bought  some  meat  and  flour, 
because  the  gray  mare  and  I  always  ate  mealies ; 
it  is  the  cheapest  thing ;  when  you  boil  it  hard 
you  can't  eat  much  of  it.  I  made  some  cakes, 
and  I  folded  my  great-coat  on  the  box  to  make  it 
soft  for  him  ;  and  at  last  he  came. 

" '  You've  got  a  rummy  place  here,'  he  said. 

"  You  see  there  was  nothing  in  it  but  packing- 
cases  for  furniture,  and  it  was  rather  empty. 
While   I  was  putting  the   food   on   the  box  he 


320  THE  STORY  OF 

looked  at  my  books  ;  he  read  their  names  out 
aloud.  '  Elementary  Physiology/  '  First  Prin- 
ciples.' 

"  '  Golly  ! '  he  said  ;  I've  got  a  lot  of  dry  stuff 
like  that  at  home  I  got  for  Sunday-school  prizes ; 
but  I  only  keep  them  to  light  my  pipe  with  now ; 
they  come  in  handy  for  that.'  Then  he  asked 
me  if  I  had  ever  read  a  book  called  the  '  Black- 
1  eyed  Creole.'  '  That  is  the  style  for  me,'  he  said  ; 
*  there  where  the  fellow  takes  the  nigger-girl  by 
the  arm,  and  the  other  fellow  cuts  off  !  That's 
what  I  like/ 

"  But  what  he  said  after  that  I  don't  re- 
member, only  it  made  me  feel  as  if  I  were 
having  a  bad  dream,  and  I  wanted  to  be  far 
away. 

"  When  he  had  finished  eating  he  did  not  stay 
long :  he  had  to  go  and  see  some  girls  home  from 
a  prayer-meeting ;  and  he  asked  how  it  was  he 
never  saw  me  walking  out  with  any  on  Sunday 
afternoons.  He  said  he  had  lots  of  sweethearts, 
and  he  was  going  to  see  one  the  next  Wednesday 
on  a  farm,  and  he  asked  me  to  lend  my  mare.  I 
told  him  she  was  very  old.  But  he  said  it  didn't 
matter;  he  would  come  the  next  day  to  fetch 
her. 

"  After  he  was  gone  my  little  room  got  back  to 
its  old  look.  I  loved  it  so  ;  I  was  so  glad  to  get 
into  it  at  night,  and  it  seemed  to  be  reproaching 
me  for  bringing  him  there.  The  next  day  he 
took  the  gray  mare.  On  Thursday  he  did  not 
bring  her  back,  and  on  Friday  I  found  the  saddle 
and  bridle  standing  at  my  door. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  3 2 1 

"  In  the  afternoon  he  looked  into  the  shop, 
and  called  out,  '  Hope  you  got  your  saddle, 
Farber  ?  Your  bag-of -bones  kicked  out  six  miles 
from  this.  I'll  send  you  a  couple  of  shillings  to- 
morrow, though  the  old  hide  wasn't  worth  it. 
Good-morning.' 

"  But  I  sprang  over  the  counter,  and  got  him 
by  his  throat.  My  father  was  so  gentle  with  her ; 
he  never  would  ride  her  up  hill,  and  now  this 
fellow  had  murdered  her  !  I  asked  him  where 
he  had  killed  her,  and  I  shook  him  till  he  slipped 
out  of  my  hand.  He  stood  in  the  door  grin- 
ning. 

"  *  It  didn't  take  much  to  kill  #Wbag-of-bones, 
whose  master  sleeps  in  a  packing-case,  and  waits 
till  his  company's  finished  to  eat  on  the  plate. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  you  fed  her  on  sugar-bags,'  he 
said ;'  and,  if  you  think  I've  jumped  her,  you'd 
better  go  and  look  yourself.  You'll  find  her  along 
the  road  by  the  "aas-vogels"  that  are  eating 
her.' 

"  I  caught  him  by  his  collar,  and  I  lifted  him 
from  the  ground,  and  I  threw  him  out  into  the 
street,  half-way  across  it.  I  heard  the  book- 
keeper say  to  the  clerk  that  there  was  always  the 
devil  in  those  mum  fellows  ;  but  they  never  called 
me  Salvation  after  that. 

"  I  am  writing  to  you  of  very  small  things,  but 
there  is  nothing  else  to  tell ;  it  has  been  all  small 
and  you  will  like  it.  Whenever  anything  has  hap- 
pened I  have  always  thought  I  would  tell  it  to 
you.  The  back  thought  in  my  mind  is  always 
you.  After  that  only  one  old  man  came  to  visit 
21 


322  THE  STORY  OF 

me.  I  had  seen  him  in  the  streets  often ;  he  al- 
ways wore  very  dirty  black  clothes,  and  a  hat 
with  crape  round  it,  and  he  had  one  eye,  so  I 
noticed  him.  One  day  he  came  to  my  room  with 
a  subscription-list  for  a  minister's  salary.  When 
I  said  I  had  nothing  to  give  he  looked  at  me  with 
his  one  eye. 

"  '  Young  man,'  he  said,  *  how  is  it  I  never 
see  you  in  the  house  of  the  Lord  ? '  I  thought 
he  was  trying  to  do  good,  so  I  felt  sorry  for  him, 
and  I  told  him  I  never  went  to  chapel.  '  Young 
man,'  he  said,  '  it  grieves  me  to  hear  such  godless 
words  from  the  lips  of  one  so  young — so  far  gone 
in  the  paths  of  destruction.  Young  man,  if  you 
forget  God,  God  will  forget  you.  There  is  a  seat 
on  the  right-hand  side  as  you  go  at  the  bottom 
door  that  you  may  get.  If  you  are  given  over  to 
the  enjoyment  and  frivolities  of  this  world,  what 
will  become  of  your  never-dying  soul  ? ' 

"  He  would  not  go  till  I  gave  him  half-a-crown 
for  the  minister's  salary.  Afterward  I  heard  he 
was  the  man  who  collected  the  pew-rents,  and 
got  a  percentage.  I  didn't  get  to  know  any  one 
else. 

"  When  my  time  in  that  shop  was  done  I 
hired  myself  to  drive  one  of  a  transport-rider's 
wagons. 

"  That  first  morning,  when  I  sat  in  the  front  and 
called  to  my  oxen,  and  saw  nothing  about  me  but 
the  hills  with  the  blue  coming  down  to  them,  and 
the  karroo  bushes,  I  was  drunk  ;  I  laughed  ;  my 
heart  was  beating  till  it  hurt  me.  I  shut  my  eyes 
tight,  that  when  I  opened  them  I  might  see  there 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  323 

were  no  shelves  about  me.  There  must  be  a 
beauty  in  buying  and  selling  if  there  is  beauty  in 
everything  ;  but  it  is  very  ugly  to  me.  My  life  as 
transport-rider  would  have  been  the  best  life  in 
the  world  if  I  had  had  only  one  wagon  to  drive. 
My  master  told  me  he  would  drive  one,  I  the 
other,  and  he  would  hire  another  person  to  drive 
the  third.  But  the  first  day  I  drove  two  to  help 
him,  and  after  that  he  let  me  drive  all  three. 
Whenever  we  came  to  an  hotel  he  stopped  be- 
hind to  get  a  drink,  and  when  he  rode  up  to  the 
wagons  he  could  never  stand  ;  the  Hottentot  and 
I  used  to  lift  him  up.  We  always  traveled  all 
night,  and  used  to  '  out-span  '  for  five  or  six  hours 
in  the  heat  of  the  day  to  rest.  I  planned  that  I 
would  lie  under  the  wagon  and  read  for  an  hour  or 
two  every  day  before  I  went  to  sleep,  and  I  did 
for  the  first  two  or  three  ;  but  after  that  I  only 
wanted  to  sleep  like  the  rest,  and  I  packed  my 
books  away.  When  you  have  three  wagons  to 
look  after  all  night,  you  are  sometimes  so  tired 
you  can  hardly  stand.  At  first  when  I  walked 
along  driving  my  wagons  in  the  night  it  was  glori- 
ous ;  the  stars  had  never  looked  so  beautiful  to 
me  ;  and  on  the  dark  nights  when  we  rode  through 
the  bush  there  were  will-o'-the-wisps  dancing  on 
each  side  of  the  road.  I  found  out  that  even 
the  damp  and  dark  are  beautiful.  But  I  soon 
changed,  and  saw  nothing  but  the  road  and  my 
oxen.  I  only  wished  for  a  smooth  piece  of  road, 
so  that  I  might  sit  at  the  front  and  doze.  At  the 
places  where  we  *  out-spanned  '  there  were  some- 
times rare  plants  and  flowers,  the  festoons  hang- 


324  THE  STORY  OF 

ing  from  the  bush-trees,  and  nuts  and  insects, 
such  as  we  never  see  here ;  but  after  a  little  while 
I  never  looked  at  them — I  was  too  tired.  I  ate 
as  much  as  I  could,  and  then  lay  down  on  my 
face  under  the  wagon  till  the  boy  came  to  wake 
me  to  'in-span,'  and  then  we  drove  on  again  all 
night ;  so  it  went,  so  it  went.  I  think  sometimes 
when  we  walked  by  my  oxen  I  called  to  them  in 
my  sleep,  for  I  know  I  thought  of  nothing ;  I  was 
like  an  animal.  My  body  was  strong  and  well  to 
work,  but  my  brain  was  dead.  If  you  have  not 
felt  it,  Lyndall,  you  cannot  understand  it.  You 
may  work,  and  work  and  work,  till  you  are  only 
a  body,  not  a  soul.  Now,  when  I  see  one  of  those 
evil-looking  men  that  come  from  Europe — navvies, 
with  the  beast-like,  sunken  face,  different  from 
any  Kaffir's — I  know  what  brought  that  look  into 
their  eyes  ;  and  if  I  have  only  one  inch  of  tobacco 
I  give  them  half.  It  is  work,  grinding,  me- 
chanical work,  that  they  or  their  ancestors  have 
done,  that  has  made  them  into  beasts.  You  may 
work  a  man's  body  so  that  his  soul  dies.  Work 
is  good.  I  have  worked  at  the  old  farm  from  the 
sun's  rising  till  its  setting,  but  I  have  had  time 
to  think,  and  time  to  feel.  You  may  work  a  man 
so  that  all  but  the  animal  in  him  is  gone  ;  and 
that  grows  stronger  with  physical  labor.  You 
may  work  a  man  till  he  is  a  devil.  I  know  it,  be- 
cause I  have  felt  it.  You  will  never  understand 
the  change  that  came  over  me.  No  one  but  L 
will  ever  know  how  great  it  was.  •  But  I  was  never 
miserable ;  when  I  could  keep  my  oxen  from 
sticking  fast,  and  when  I  could  find  a  place  to 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  325 

lie  down  in,  I  had  all  I  wanted.  After  I  had 
driven  eight  months  a  rainy  reason  came.  For 
eighteen  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four  we  worked 
in  the  wet.  The  mrd  went  up  to  the  axles 
sometimes,  and  we  had  to  dig  the  wheels  out,  and 
we  never  went  far  in  a  day.  My  master  swore  at 
me  more  than  ever,  but  when  he  had  done  he 
always  offered  me  his  brandy-flask.  When  I  first 
came  he  had  offered  it  me,  and  I  had  always 
refused ;  but  now  I  drank  as  my  oxen  did  when 
I  gave  them  water— without  thinking.  At  last  I 
bought  brandy  for  myself  whenever  we  passed 
a**  hotel. 

"One  Sunday  we  'out-spanned'  on  the  banks 
of  a  swollen  river  to  wait  for  its  going  down.  It 
was  drizzling  still,  so  I  lay  under  the  wagon  on 
the  mud.  There  was  no  dry  place  anywhere ; 
and  all  the  dung  was  wet,  so  there  was  no  fire  to 
cook  food.  My  little  flask  was  filled  with  brandy, 
and  I  drank  some  and  went  to  sleep.  When  I 
woke  it  was  drizzling  still,  so  I  drank  some  more. 
I  was  stiff  and  cold  ;  and  my  master,  who  lay  by 
me,  offered  me  his  flask,  because  mine  was 
empty.  I  drank  some,  and  then  I  thought  I 
would  go  and  see  if  the  river  was  going  down.  I 
remember  that  I  walked  to  the  road,  and  it  seemed 
to  be  going  away  from  me.  When  I  woke  up  I 
was  lying  by  a  little  bush  on  the  bank  of  the 
river.  It  was  afternoon  ;  all  the  clouds  had  gone, 
and  the  sky  was  deep  blue.  The  Bushman  boy 
was  grilling  ribs  at  the  fire.  He  looked  at  me, 
and  grinned  from  ear  to  ear.  '  Master  was  a 
little  nice,'  he  said,  '  and  lay  down  in  the  road. 


326  -  THE  STORY  OF 

Something  might  ride  over  master,  so  I  carried 
him  there.'  He  grinned  at  me  again.  It  was  as 
though  he  said,  '  You  and  I  are  comrades.  1 
have  lain  in  a  road  too.  I  know  all  about  it." 
When  I  turned  my  head  from  him  I  saw  the  earth, 
so  pure  after  the  rain,  so  green,  so  fresh,  so  blue  ; 
— and  I  was  a  drunken  carrier,  whom  his  leader 
had  picked  up  in  the  mud,  and  laid  at  the  road- 
side to  sleep  out  his  drink.  I  remembered  my 
old  life,  and  I  remembered  you.  I  saw  how,  one 
day,  you  would  read  in  the  papers — '  A  German 
carrier,  named  Waldo  Farber,  was  killed  through 
falling  from  his  wagon,  being  instantly  crushed 
under  the  wheel.  Deceased  was  supposed  to 
have  been  drunk  at  the.  time  of  the  accident.' 
There  are  those  notices  in  the  paper  every  month. 
I  sat  up,  and  I  took  the  brandy-flask  out  of  my 
pocket,  and  I  flung  it  as  far  as  I  could  into  the 
dark  water.  The  Hottentot  boy  ran  down  to  see 
if  he  could  catch  it ;  it  had  sunk  to  the  bottom. 
I  never  drank  again.  But,  Lyndall,  sin  looks 
much  more  terrible  to  those  who  look  at  it  than 
to  those  who  do  it.  A  Convict,  or  a  man  who 
drinks,  seems  something  so  far  off  and  horrible 
when  we  see  him  ;  but  to  himself  he  seems  quite 
near  to  us,  and  like  us.  We  wonder  what  kind  of 
a  creature  he  is  ;  but  he  is  just  we,  ourselves. 
We  are  only  the  wood,  the  knife  that  carves  on 
us  is  the  circumstance. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  I  kept  on  working  so 
hard  for  that  master.  I  think  it  was  as  the  oxen 
come  every  day  and  stand  by  the  yokes ;  they 
do  not  know  why.     Perhaps  I   would  have  been 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  327 

with  him  still  :  but  one  day  we  started  with 
loads  for  the  Diamond  Fields.  The  oxen  were 
very  thin  now,  and  they  had  been  standing  about 
Sin  the  yoke  all  day  without  food  while  the  wagons 
Were  being  loaded.  Not  far  from  the  town  was 
a  hill.  When  we  came  to  the  foot  the  first  wagon 
stuck  fast.  I  tried  for  a  little  while  to  urge  the 
oxen,  but  I  soon  saw  the  one  '  span '  could 
never  pull  it  up.  I  went  to  the  other  wagon  to 
loosen  that  '  span  '  to  join  them  on  in  front,  but 
the  transport-rider,  who  was  lying  at  the  back 
of  the  wagon,  jumped  out. 

"  '  They  shall  bring  it  up  the  hill ;  and  if  half 
of  them  die  for  it  they  shall  do  it  alone,'  he  said. 

"  He  was  not  drunk,  but  in  a  bad  temper,  for 
he  had  been  drunk  the  night  before.  He  swore 
at  me,  and  told  me  to  take  the  whip  and  help 
him.  We  tried  for  a  little  time,  then  I  told  him 
it  was  no  use,  they  could  never  do  it.  He 
swore  louder,  and  called  to  the  leaders  to  come 
on  with  their  whips,  and  together  they  lashed. 
There  was  one  ox,  a  black  ox,  so  thin  that  the  ridge 
of  his  backbone  almost  cut  through  his  flesh. 

"  '  It  is  you,  Devil,  is  it,  that  will  not  pull  ? ' 
the  transport-rider  said.  '  I  will  show  you  some- 
thing.'    He  looked  like  a  Devil. 

"  He  told  the  boys  to  leave  off  flogging,  and 
he  held  the  ox  by  the  horn,  and  took  up  a  round 
stone  and  knocked  its  nose  with  it  till  the  blood 
came.  When  he  had  done  they  called  to  the 
oxen  and  took  up  their  whips  again,  and  the  oxen 
strained  with  their  backs  bent,  but  the  wagon  did 
not  move  an  inch. 


328  THE  STORY  OF 

"  '  So  you  won't,  won't  you  ? '  he  said.  '  I'll 
help  you.' 

"  He  took  out  his  clasp-knife,  and  ran  it  into 
the  leg  of  the  trembling  ox  three  times,  up  to 
the  hilt.  Then  he  put  the  knife  in  his  pocket, 
and  they  took  their  whips.  The  oxen's  flanks 
quivered,  and  they  foamed  at  the  mouth.  Strain- 
ing, they  moved  the  wagon  a  few  feet  forward,  then 
stood  with  bent  backs  to  keep  it  from  sliding 
back.  From  the  black  ox's  nostril  foam  and 
blood  were  streaming  on  the  ground.  It  turned 
its  head  in  its  anguish  and  looked  at  me  with  its 
great  starting  eyes.  It  was  praying  for  help  in 
its  agony  and  weakness,  and  they  took  their 
whips  again.  The  creature  bellowed  out  aloud. 
If  there  is  a  God,  it  was  calling  to  its  Maker  for 
help.  Then  a  stream  of  clear  blood  burst  from 
both  nostrils ;  it  fell  on  to  the  ground,  and  the 
wagon  slipped  back.     The  man  walked  up  to  it. 

"  '  You  are  going  to  lie  down,  Devil,  are  you  '.* 
We'll  see  you  don't  take  it  too  easy.' 

"The  thing  was  just  dying.  He  opened  his 
clasp-knife  and  stooped  down  over  it.  I  do  not 
know  what  I  did  then.  But  afterward  I  know  I 
had  him  on  the  stones,  and  I  was  kneeling  on 
him.  The  boys  dragged  me  off.  I  wish  they 
had  not.  I  left  him  standing  in  the  sand  in  the 
road,  shaking  himself,  and  I  walked  back  to  the 
town.  I  took  nothing  from  that  accursed  wagon, 
so  I  had  only  two  shillings.  But  it  did  not 
matter.  The  next  day  I  got  work  at  a  wholesale 
store.  My  work  was  to  pack  and  unpack  goods, 
and  to  carry  boxes,  and  I  had  only  to  work  from 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


329 


six  in  the  morning  till  six  in  the  evening  ;  so  I  had 
plenty  of  time.  I  hired  a  little  room,  and  sub- 
scribed to  a  library,  so  I  had  everything  I  needed ; 
and  in  the  week  of  Christmas  holidays  I  went  to 
see  the  sea.  I  walked  all  night,  Lyndall,  to 
escape  the  heat,  and  a  little  after  sunrise  I  got  to 
the  top  of  a  high  hill.  Before  me  was  a  long, 
iow,  blue,  monotonous  mountain.  I  walked 
looking  at  it,  but  I  was  thinking  of  the  sea  I 
wanted  to  see.  At  last  I  wondered  what  that 
curious  blue  thing  might  be ;  then  it  struck  me  it 
was  the  sea !  I  would  have  turned  back  again, 
only  I  was  too  tired.  I  wonder  if  all  the  things 
we  long  to  see— the  churches,  the  pictures,  the 
men  in  Europe — will  disappoint  us  so  !  You  see 
I  had  dreamed  of  it  so  long.  When  I  was  a 
little  boy,  minding  sheep  behind  the  *  kopje,'  I 
used  to  see  the  waves  stretching  out  as  -  far  as 
the  eye  could  reach  in  the  sunlight.  My  sea ! 
Is  the  ideal  always  more  beautiful  than  the  real  ? 
".I  got  to  the  beach  that  afternoon,  and  I  saw 
the  water  run  up  and  down  on  the  sand,  and  I 
saw  the  white  foam  breakers ;  they  were  pretty, 
but  I  thought  I  would  go  back  the  next  day.  It 
was  not  my  sea. 

.  "  But  I  began  to  like  it  when  I  sat  by  it  that 
night  in  the  moonlight ;  and  the  next  day  I  liked 
it  better  ;  and  before  I  left  I  loved  it.  It  was  not 
like  the  sky  and  stars  that  talked  of  what  has  no 
beginning  and  no  end  ;  but  it  is  so  human.  Ot 
all  the  things  I  have  ever  seen,  only  the  sea  is 
like  a  human  being ;  the  sky  is  not,  nor  the  earth. 
But  the  sea  is  always  moving,  always  something 


330  THE  STOR  Y  OF. 

deep  in  itself  is  stirring  it.  It  never  rests  ;  it  is 
always  wanting,  wanting,  wanting.  It  hurries  on  ; 
and  then  it  creeps  back  slowly  without  having 
reached,  moaning.  It  is  always  asking  a  question, 
and  it  never  gets  the  answer.  I  can  hear  it  in 
the  day  and  in  the  night ;  the  white  foam  breakers 
are  saying  that  which  I  think.  I  walk  alone  with 
them  when  there  is  no  one  to  see  me,  and  I  sing 
with  them.  I  lie  down  on  the  sand  and  watch  them 
with  my  eyes  half  shut.  The  sky  is  better,  but 
it  is  so  high  above  our  heads.  I  love  the  sea. 
Sometimes  we  must  look  down  too.  After  five 
days  I  went  back  to  Grahamstown. 

"  I  had  glorious  books,  and  in  the  night  I 
could  sit  in  my  little  room  and  read  them  ;  but  I 
was  lonely.  Books  are  not  the  same  things  when 
you  are  living  among  people.  I  cannot  tell  why, 
but  they  are  dead.  On  the  farm  they  would  have 
been  living  beings  to  me ;  but  here,  where  there 
were  so  many  people  about  me,  I  wanted  some 
one  to  belong  to  me.  I  was  lonely.  I  wanted 
something  that  was  flesh  and  blood.  Once  on 
this  farm  there  came  a  stranger :  I  did  not  ask 
his  name,  but  he  sat  among  the  karroo  and  talked 
with  me.  Now,  wherever  I  have  traveled  I  have 
looked  for  him — in  hotels,  in  streets,  in  passenger 
wagons  as  they  rushed  in,  through  the  open  win- 
dows of  houses  I  have  looked  for  him,  but  I  have 
not  found  him — n«iver  heard  a  voice  like  his. 
One  day  I  went  to  the  Botanic  Gardens.  It  was 
a  half-holiday,  and  the  band  was  to  play.  I  stood 
in  the  long  raised  avenue  and  looked  down.  There 
were  many  flowers,  and  ladies  and  children  were 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM,  331 

walking  about  beautifully  dressed.  At  last  -the 
music  began.  I  had  not  heard  such  music  before. 
At  first  it  was  slow  and  even,  like  the  everyday 
life,  when  we  walk  through  it  without  thought  or 
feeling ;  then  it  grew  faster,  then  it  paused,  hesi- 
tated, then  it  was  quite  still  for  an  instant,  and 
then  it  burst  out.  Lyndall,  they  made  heaven 
right  when  they  made  it  all  music.  It  takes 
you  up  and  carries  you  away,  away,  till  you  have 
the  things  you  longed  for;  you  are  up  close  to 
them.  You  have  got  out  into  a  large,  free,  open 
place.  I  could  not  see  anything  while  it  was  play- 
ing; I  stood  with  my  head  against  my  tree  ;  but, 
when  it  was  done,  I  saw  that  there  were  ladies 
sitting  close  to  me  on  a  wooden  bench,  and  the 
stranger  who  had  talked  to  me  that  day  in  the 
karroo  .  was  sitting  between  them.  The  ladies 
were  very  pretty,  and  their  dresses  beautiful.  I 
do  not  think  they  had  been  listening  to  the  music, 
for  they  were  talking  and  laughing  very  softly.  I 
heard  all  they  said,  and  could  even  smell  the  rose 
on  the  breast  of  one.  I  was  afraid  he  would  see 
me ;  so  I  went  to  the  other  side  of  the  tree,  and 
soon  they  got  up  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down 
in  the  avenue.  All  the  time  the  music  played 
they  chatted,  and  he  carried  on  his  arm  the  scarf 
of  the  prettiest  lady.  I  did  not  hear  the  music ; 
I  tried  to  catch  the  sound  of  his  voice  each  time 
he  went  by.  When  I  was  listening  to  the  music 
I  did  not  know  I  was  badly  dressed  ;  now  I  felt 
so  ashamed  of  myself.  I  never  knew  before  what 
a  low,  horrible  thing  I  was,  dressed  in  tancord. 
That  day  on  the  farm,  when  we  sat  on  the  ground 


332  THE  STORY  OF 

under  the  thorn-tree**,  I  thought  he  quite  belonged 
to  me  ;  now,  I  saw  he  was  not  mine.  But  he  was 
still  as  beautiful.  His  brown  eyes  are  more  beau- 
tiful, than  any  one's  eyes,  except  yours. 

"  At  last  they  turned  to  go,  and  I  walked  after 
them.  When  they  got  out  of  the  gate  he  helped 
the  ladies  into  a  phaeton,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
with  his  foot  on  the  step  talking  to  them.  He 
had  a  little  cane  in  his  hand,  and  an  Italian  grey- 
hound ran  after  him.  Just  when  they  rode  away 
one  of  the  ladies  dropped  her  whip. 

"  '  Pick  it  up,  fellow,'  she  said ;  and  when  I 
brought  it  her  she  threw  sixpence  on  the  ground. 
I  might  have  gone  back  to  the  garden  then ;  but 
I  did  not  want  music ;  I  wanted  clothes,  and  to 
be  fashionable  and  fine.  I  felt  that  my  hands 
were  coarse,  and  that  I  was  vulgar.  I  never 
tried  to  see  him  again. 

"  I  stayed  in  my  situation  four  months  after  that, 
but  I  was  not  happy.  I  had  no  rest.  The  people 
about  me  pressed  on  me,  and  made  me  dissatisfied. 
I  could  not  forget  them.  Even  when  I  did  not 
see  them  they  pressed  on  me,  and  made  me  mis- 
erable. I  did  not  love  books ;  I  wanted  people. 
When  I  walked  home  under  the  shady  trees  in 
the  street  I  could  not  be  happy,  for  when  I  passed 
the  houses  I  heard  music,  and  saw  faces  between 
the  curtains.  I  did  not  want  any  of  them,  but  I 
wanted  some  one  for  mine,  for  me.  I  could  not 
help  it.     I  wanted  a  finer  life. 

"  Only  one  day  something  made  me  happ).  A 
nurse  came  to  the  store  with  a  little  girl  belong- 
ing to  one  of  our  clerks.     While  the  maid  went 


AN  AFRICAN-  FARM.  ^Z 

mto  the  office  to  give  a  message  to  its  father,  the 
little  child  stood  looking  at  me.  Presently  she 
came  close  to  me  and  peeped  up  into  my  face. 

"'Nice  curls,  pretty  curls,' she  said;  'I  like 
curls.' 

"  She  felt  my  hair  all  over  with  her  little  hands. 
When  I  put  out  my  arm  she  let  me  take  her  and 
sit  her  on  my  knee.  She  kissed  me  with  her 
soft  mouth.  We  were  happy  till  the  nurse-girj. 
came  and  shook  her,  and  asked  her  if  she  was 
not  ashamed  to  sit  on  the  knee  of  that  strange 
man.  But  I  do  not  think  my  little  one  minded. 
She  laughed  at  me  as  she  went  out. 

"  If  the  world  was  all  children  I  could  like  it ; 
but  men  and  women  draw  me  so  strangely,  and 
then  press  me  away,  till  I  am  in  agony.  I  was 
not  meariVlo  live  among  people.  Perhaps  some 
day,  when  I  am  grown  older,  I  will  be  able  to  go 
and  live  among  them  and  look  at  them  as  I  look 
at  the  rocks  and  bushes,  without  letting  them 
disturb  me,  and  tal«  myself  from  me ;  but  not 
now.  So  I  grew  miserable ;  a  kind  of  fever 
seemed  to  eat  me  ;  I  could  not  icst,  or  read,  or 
think ;  so  I  came  back  here.  I  knew  you  were 
not  here,  but  it  seemed  as  though  I  should  be 
nearer  you  ;  and  it  is  you  I  want — you  that  the 
other  people  suggest  to  me,  but  cannot  give." 

He  had  filled  all  the  sheets  he  had  taken,  and 
now  lifted  down  the  last  from  the  mantel-piece. 
Em  had  dropped  asleep,  and  lay  slumbering 
peacefully  on  the  skin  before  the  fire.  Out  of 
doors  the  storm  still  raged  ;  but  in  a  fitful  manner, 
as  though  growing  half  weary  of  itself.     He  bent 


334 


THE  STORY  OF 


over  his  paper  again,  with  eager  flushed  cheek, 
and  wrote -on. 

"  It  has  been  a  delightful  journey,  this  journey 
home.  I  have  walked  on  foot.  The  evening 
before  last,  when  it  was  just  sunset,  I  was  a  little 
footsore  and  thirsty,  and  went  out  of  the  road  to 
look  for  water.  I  went  down  into  a  deep  little 
1  kloof.'  Some  trees  ran  along  the  bottom,  and 
I  thought  I  should  find  water  there.  The  sun 
had  quite  set  when  I  got  to  the  bottom  of  it.  It 
was  very  still — not  a  leaf  was  stirring  anywhere. 
In  the  bed  of  the  mountain  torrent  I  thought  I 
might  find  water.  I  came  to  the  bank,  and 
leaped  down  into  the  dry  bed.  The  floor  on 
which  I  stood  was  of  fine  white  sand,  and  the 
banks  rose  on  every  side  like  the  walls  of  a 
room.  Above  there  was  a  precipice  of  rocks, 
and  a  tiny  stream  of  water  oozed  from  them  and 
fell  slowly  on  to  the  flat  stone  below.  Each  drop 
you  could  hear  fall  like  a  little  silver  bell.  There 
was  one  among  the  trees  on  the  bank  that  stood 
cut  out  against  the  white  sky.  All  the  other 
trees  were  silent ;  but  this  one  shook  and  trem- 
bled against  the  sty.  Everything  else  was  still ; 
but  those  leaves  were  quivering,  quivering.  I 
stood  on  the  sand  ;  I  could  not  go  away.  When 
it  was  quite  dark,  and  the  stars  had  come,  I 
crept  out.  Does  it  seem  strange  to  you  that  it 
should  have  made  me  so  happy  ?  It  is  because  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  near  I  felt  to  things  that 
we  cannot  see  but  we  always  feel.  To-night 
has  been  a  wild,  stormy  night.  I  have  been 
walking  across  the  plain  for  h<3urs  in  the  dark, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  335 

I  have  liked  the  wind,  because  I  have  seemed 
forcing  my  way  through  to  you.  I  knew  you 
were  not  here,  but  I  would  hear  of  you.  When 
I  used  to  sit  on  the  transport  wagon  half-sleep- 
ing, I  used  to  start  awake  because  your  hands 
were  on  me.  In  my  lodgings,  many  nights  I 
have  blown  the  light  out,  and  sat  in  the  dark, 
that  I  might  see  your  face  start  out  more  dis- 
tinctly. Sometimes  it  was  the  little  girl's  face  who 
used  to  come  to  me  behind  the  '  kopje  '  when  I 
minded  sheep,  and  sit  by  me  in  her  blue  pina- 
fore; sometimes  it  was  older.  I  love  both.  I 
am  very  helpless,  I  shall  never  do  anything  ;  but 
you  will  work,  and^I  will  take  your  work  for 
mine.  Sometimes  such  a  sudden  gladness  seizes 
me  when  I  remember  that  somewhere  in  the 
world  you  are  living  and  working.  You  are  my 
very  own  ;  nothing  else  is  my  own  so.  When  I 
have  finished  I  am  going  to  look  at  your  room 
door " 

He  wrote  ;  and  the  wind,  which  had  spent  its 
fury,  moaned  round  and  round  the  house,  most 
like  a  tired  child  weary  with  crying. 

Em  woke  up,  and  sat  before  the  fire,  rubbing 
her  eyes,  and  listening,  as  it  sobbed  about  the 
gables,  and  wandered  away  over  the  long  stone 
walls. 

"  How  quiet  it  has  grown  now,"  she  said,  and 
sighed  herself,  partly  from  weariness  and  partly 
from  sympathy  with  the  tired  wind.  He  did  not 
answer  her ;  he  was  lost  in  his  letter. 

She  rose  slowly  after  a  time,  •  and  rested  her 
hand  on  his  shoulder. 


336  THE  STORY  OF 

M  You  have  many  letters  to  write,"  she  said." 

"  No,"  he  answered  ;  "  it  is  only  one  to  Lyndall." 

She  turned  away,  and  stood  long  before  the 
fire  looking  into  it.  If  you  have  a  deadly  fruit 
to  give,  it  will  not  grow  sweeter  by  keeping. 

'*  Waldo,  dear,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand  on 
his,  "leave  off  writing." 

He  threw  back  the  dark  hair  from  his  forehead 
and  looked  at  her. 

"  It  is  no  use  writing  any  more,"- she  said. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  put  her  hand  over  the  papers  ha  had 
written. 

"  Waldo,"  she  said,  "  Lyndall  is  dead." 


CHAPTER  XII. 


Slowly  over  the  flat  came  a  cart.  On  the  back 
seat  sat  Gregory,  his  arms  folded,  his  hat  drawn 
over  his  eyes.  A  Kaffir  boy  sat  on  the  front  seat 
driving,  and  at  his  feet  sat  Doss,  who,  now  and 
again,  lifted  his  nose  and  eyes  above  the  level  of 
the  splashboard,  to  look  at  the  surrounding  coun- 
try ;  and  then,  with  an  exceedingly  knowing  wink 
of  his  left  eye,  turned  to  his  companions,  there- 
by intimating  that  he  clearly  perceived  his  where- 
abouts. No  one  noticed  the  cart  coming.  Waldo, 
who  was  at  work  at  his  carpenter's  table  in  the 
wagon-house,  saw  nothing,  till,  chancing  to  look 
down,  he  perceived  Doss  standing  before  him,  the 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


337 


legs  trembling,  the  little  nose  wrinkled,  and  a 
series  of  short  suffocating  barks  giving  utterance 
to  his  joy  at  reunion. 

Em,  whose  eyes  had  ached  with  looking  out 
across  the  plain,  was  now  at  work  in  a  back  room, 
and  knew  nothing  till,  looking  up,  she  saw  Gregj 
ory,  with  his  straw  hat  and  blue  eyes,  standing  in 
the  doorway.  He  greeted  her  quietly,  hung  his 
hat  up  in  its  old  place  behind  the  door,  and  for 
any  change  in  his  manner  or  appearance  he  might 
have  been  gone  only  the  day  before  to  fetch  letters 
from  the  town.  Only  his  beard  was  gone,  and 
his  face  was  grown  thinner.  He  took  off  his 
leather  gaiters,  said  the  afternoon  was  hot  and 
the  roads  dusty,  and  asked  for  some  tea.  They 
talked  of  wool,  and  the  cattle,  and  the  sheep,  and 
Em  gave  him  the  pile  of  letters  that  had  come 
for  him  during  the  months  of  absence,  but  of  the 
thing  that  lay  at  their  hearts  neither  said  any- 
thing. Then  he  went  out  to  look  at  the  kraals, 
and  at  supper  Em  gave  him  hot  cakes  and  coffee. 
They  talked  abcjut  the  servants,  and  then  ate  their 
meal  in  quiet  She  asked  no  questions.  When 
it  was  ended  Gregory  went  into  the  front  room, 
and  lay  in  the  dark  on  the  sofa. 

"  Do  you  not  want  a  light  ?  "  Em  asked,  ventur- 
ing to  look  in. 

"  No,"  he  answered ;  then  presently  called  to 
her,  "  Come  and  sit  here  ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

She  came  and  sat  on  a  footstool  near  him. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  hoar  anything  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  whispered,  "  Yes,  if  it  does  not  hurt  you." 

"  What  difference  does  it  make  to  me  ? "  he 
22 


3 38  THE  STORY  OF 

said.  "  If  I  talk  or  am  silent,  is  there  any 
change  ? " 

Yet  he  lay  quiet  for  a  long  time.  The  light 
through  the  open  door  showed  him  to  her,  where 
he  lay,  with  his  arm  thrown  across  his  eyes.  At 
last  he  spoke.  Perhaps  it  was  a  relief  to  him  to 
speak. 

To  Bloemfontein  in  the  Free  State,  to  which 
through  an  agent  he  had  traced  them,  Gregory 
had  gone.  At  the  hotel  where  Lyndall  and  her 
stranger  had  stayed  he  put  up ;  he  was  shown  the 
very  room  in  which  they  had  slept.  The  colored 
boy  who  had  driven  them  to  the  next  town  told 
him  in  which  house  they  had  boarded,  and  Greg- 
ory went  on.  In  that  town  he  found  they  had 
left  the  cart,  and  bought  a  spider  and  four  grays, 
and  Gregory's  heart  rejoiced.  Now,  indeed,  it 
would  be  easy  to  trace  their  course.  And  he 
turned  his  steps  northward. 

At  the  farm-houses  where  he  stopped  the 
"  ooms  "  and  "  tantes  "  remembered  clearly  the 
spider  with  its  four  gray  horses.  At  one  place 
the  Boer-wife  told  how  the  tall,  blue-eyed  English- 
man had  bought  milk,  and  asked  the  way  to  the 
next  farm.  At  the  next  farm  the  Englishman  had 
bought  a  bunch  of  flowers,  and  given  half-a-crown 
for  them  to  the  little  girl.  It  was  quite  true  ;  the 
Boer-mother  made  her  get  it  out  of  the  box  and 
show  it.  At  the  next  place  they  had  slept.  Here 
they  told  him  that  the  great  bull-dog,  who  hated  all 
strangers,  had  walked  in  in  the  evening  and  laid  its 
head  on  the  lady's  lap.  So  at  every  place  he 
heard  something,  and  traced  them  step  by  step. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  339 

At  one  desolate  farm  the  Boer  had  a  good  deal 
to  tell.  The  lady  had  said  she  liked  a  wagon  that 
stood  before  the  door.  Without  asking  the  price 
the  Englishman  had  offered  a  hundred  and  fifty- 
pounds  for  the  old  thing,  and  bought  oxen  worth 
ten  pounds  for  sixteen.  The  Dutchman  chuckled, 
for  he  had  the  li  Salt-reim's  "  money  in  the  box 
under  his  bed.  Gregory  laughed  too,  in  silence ; 
he  could  not  lose  eight  of  them  now,  so  slowly 
they  would  have  to  move  with  that  cumbrous  ox- 
wagon.  Yet,  when  that  evening  came,  and  he 
reached  a  little  wayside  inn,  no  one  could  tell  him 
anything  of  the  travelers. 

The  master,  a  surly  creature,  half-stupid  with 
Boer-brandy,  sat  on  the  bench  before  the  door 
smoking.  Gregory  sat  beside  him,  questioning, 
but  he  smoked  on.  He  remembered  nothing  of 
such  strangers.  How  should  he  know  who  had 
been  there  months  and  months  before  ?  He 
smoked  on.  Gregory,  very  weary,  tried  to  awake 
his  memory,  said  that  the  lady  he  was  seeking 
for  was  very  beautiful,  had  a  little  mouth,  and 
tiny,  very  tiny,  feet.  The  man  only  smoked  on 
as  sullenly  as  at  first.  What  wer<*  little,  very 
little,  mouth  and  feet  to  him  ?  But  his  daughter 
leaned  out  in  the  window  above.  She  was  dirty 
and  lazy,  and  liked  to  loll  there  when  travelers 
came,  to  hear  the  men  talk,  but  she  had  a  soft 
heart.  Presently  a  hand  came  out  of  the  window, 
and  a  pair  of  velvet  slippers  touched  his  shoulder, 
tiny  slippers  with  black  flowers.  He  pulled  them 
out  of  her  hand.  Only  one  woman's  feet  had 
worn  them,  he  knew  that. 


340  THE  STORY  OF 

^  "  Left  here  last  summer  by  a  lady,"  said  the 
girl ;  "  might  be  the  one  you  are  looking  for 
Never  saw  any  feet  so  small." 

Gregory  rose  and  questioned  her. 

They  might  have  come  in  a  wagon  an^  spider, 
she  could  not  tell.  But  the  gentleman  was  very 
handsome,  tall,  lovely  figure,  blue  eyes,  wore 
gloves  always  when  he  went  out.  An  English 
officer,  perhaps  ;  no  Africander,  certainly. 

Gregory  stopped  her. 

The  lady  ?  Well,  she  was  pretty,  rather,  the 
girl  said ;  very  cold,  dull  air,  silent.  They  stayed 
for,  it  might  be,  five  days  ;  slept  in  the  wing  over 
against  the  "stoep;"  quarreled  sometimes,  she 
thought — the  lady.  She  had  seen  everything 
when  she  went  in  to  wait.  One  day  the  gentle- 
man touched  her  hair  ;  she  drew  back  from  him 
as  though  his  fingers  poisoned  her.  Went  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room  if  he  came  to  sit  near  her. 
Walked  out  alone.  Coid  wife  for  such  a  hand- 
some  husband,  the  girl  thought ;  she  evidently 
pitied  him,  he  was  such  a  beautiful  man.  They 
went  away  early  one  morning,  how,  or  in  which 
way,  the  gir>  could  not  tell. 

Gregory  inquired  of  the  servants,  but  nothing 
more  was  to  be  learnt ;  so  the  next  morning  he 
saddled  his  horse  and  went  on.  At  the  farms  he 
came  to  the  good  old  "  ooms  "  and  "  tantes  "  asked 
him  to  have  coffee,  and  the  little  shoeless  chil- 
dren peeped  out  at  the  stranger  from  behind 
ovens  and  gables  ;  but  no  one  had  seen  what  he 
asked  for.  This  way  and  that  he  rode  to  pick  up 
the  thread  he  had  dropped ;  but  the  spider  and 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  341 

the  wagon,  the  little  lady  and  the  handsome  gen- 
tleman, no  one  had  seen.  In  the  towns  he  far^l 
yet  worse. 

Once  indeed  hope  came  to  him.  On  the 
"stoep  "  of  an  hotel  at  which  he  stayed  the  night 
in  a  certain  little  village,  there  walked  a  gentle- 
man, grave  and  kindly-looking.  It  was  not  hard 
to  open  conversation  with  him  about  the  weather, 

and  then Had  he  ever  seen  such  and  such 

people,  a  gentleman  and  lady,  a  spider  and  wagon, 
arrive  at  that  pla<ae?  The  kindly  gentleman 
shook  his  head.  What  was  the  lady  like,  he  in- 
quired. 

Gregory  painted.  Hair  like  silken  floss,  small 
mouth,  underlip  very  full  and  pink,  upper  lip  pink 
but  very  thin  and  curled ;  there  were  four  white 
spots  on  the  nail  of  her  right  hand  forefinger,  and 
her  eyebrows  were  very  delicately  curved. 

The  gentleman  looked  thoughtful,  as  trying  to 
remember. 

"  Yes ;  and  a  rose-bud  tinge  in  the  cheeks ; 
hands  like  lilies,  and  perfectly  seraphic  smile." 

"  That  is  she  !  that  is  she  !  "  cried  Gregory. 

Who  else  could  it  be  ?  He  asked  where  she 
had  gone  to.  The  gentleman  most  thoughtfully 
stroked  his  beard.     He  would  try  to  remember. 

Were  not  her  ears ■     Here  such  a  violent  fit 

of  coughing  seized  him  that  he  ran  away  into  the 
house.  An  ill-fed  clerk  and  a  dirty  barman  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway  laughed  aloud.  Gregory  won- 
dered if  they  could  be  laughing  at  the  gentleman's 
cough,  and  then  he  heard  some  one  laughing  in 
the  room  into  which  the  gentleman  had  gone. 


342  THE  STORY  OF  ~\" 

He  must  follow  him  and  try  to  learn  more;  but 
he  soon  found  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
learnt  there.     Poor  Gregory ! 

Backward  and  forward,  backward  and  forward, 
from  the  dirty  little  hotel  where  he  had  dropped 
the  thread,  to  this  farm  and  to  that,  rode  Gregory, 
till  his  heart  was  sick  and  tired.  That  fronTthat 
spot  the  wagon  might  have  gone  its  own  way  and 
the  spider  another  was  an  idea  that  did  not  cccm* 
to  him.  At  last  he  saw  it  was  no  use  lingering 
in  that  neighborhood,  and  pressed  on. 

One  day,  coming  to  a  little  town,  his  horses 
knocked  up,  and  he  resolved  to  rest  them  there. 
The  little  hotel  of  the  town  was  a  bright  and 
sunny  place,  like  the  jovial  face  of  the  clean  little 
woman  who  kept  it,  and  who  trotted  about  talking 
always — talking  to  the  customers  in  the  tap-room, 
and  to  the  maids  in  the  kitchen,  and  to  the 
passers-by  when  she  could  hail  them  from  the 
windows  ;  talking,  as  good-natured  women  with 
large  mouths  and  small  noses  always  do,  in  season 
and  out. 

There  was  a  little  front  parlor  in  the  hotel,  kept 
for  strangers  who  wanted  to  be  alone.  Gregory 
sat  there  to  eat  his  breakfast,  and  the  landlady 
dusted  the  room  and  talked  of  the  great  finds  at 
the  Diamond  Fields,  and  the  badness  of  maid- 
servants, and  the  shameful  conduct  of  the  Dutch 
parson  in  that  town  to  the  English  inhabitants. 
Gregory  ate  his  breakfast  and  listened  to  nothing. 
He  had  asked  his  one  question,  had  had  his 
answer ;  now  she  might  talk  on. 

Presently  a  door  in  the  corner  opened  and  & 


.  AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  343 

woman  came  out — a  Mozambiquer,  with  a  red 
handkerchief  twisted  round  her  head.  She 
carried  in-  her  hand  a  tray,  with  a  slice  of  toast 
crumbled  fine,  and  a  half-filled  cup  of  coffee,  and 
an  egg  broken  up,  but  not  eaten.  Her  ebony 
face  grinned  complacently  as  she  shut  the  door 
softly  and  said  "  Good-morning." 

The  landlady  began  to  talk  to  her. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  leave  her  really,  Ayah, 
are  you  ?  "  she  said.     "  The  maids  say  so  ;  but 
I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing." 
•    The  Mozambiquer  grinned. 

"  Husband  says  I  must  go  home." 

"  But  she  hasn't  got  any  one  else,  and  won't 
have  any  one  else.  Come,  now,"  said  the  land- 
lady, "  I've  no  time  to  be  sitting  always  in  a  sick 
room,  not  if  I  was  paid  anything  for  it." 

The  Mozambiquer  only  showed  her  white  teeth 
good-naturedly  for  answer,  and  went  out,  and  the 
landlady  followed  her. 

Gregory,  glad  to  be  alone,  watched  the  sunshine 
as  it  came  over  the  fuchsias  in  the  window,  and 
ran  up  and  down  on  the  paneled  door  in  the 
corner.  The  Mozambiquer  had  closed  it  loosely 
behind  her,  and  presently  something  touched  it 
inside.  It  moved  a  little,  then  it  was  still,  then 
moved  again  ;  then  through  the  gap  a  small  nose 
appeared,  and  a  yellow  ear  overlapping  one  eye ; 
then  the  whole  head  obtruded,  placed  itself 
critically  on  one  side,  wrinkled  its  nose  disap- 
provingly at  Gregory,  and  withdrew.  Through 
the  half-open  door  came  a  faint  scent  of  vinegar, 
and  the  room  was  dark  and  still. 


344  THE  STORY  OF 

Presently  the  landlady  came  back. 

"  Left  the  door  open,"  she  said,  bustling  to 
shut  it  ;  "but  a  darkey  will  be  a  darkey,  and 
never  carries  a  head  on  its  shoulders  like  othei 
folks.  Not  ill,  I  hope,  sir  ?  "  she  said,  looking 
at  Gregory  when  she  had  shut  the  bedroom 
door. 

"  No,"  said  Gregory,  M  no." 

The  landlady  began  putting  the  things  to- 
gether. 

"Who,"  asked  Gregory,  "  is  In  that  room  ?" 

Glad  to  have  a  little  innocent  piece  of  gossip 
to  relate,  and  some  one  willing  to  hear  it,  the 
landlady  made  the  most  of  a  little  story  as  she 
cleared  the  table.  Six  months  before  a  lady  had 
come  alone  to  the  hotel  in  a  wagon,  with  only  a 
colored  leader  and  driver.  Eight  days  after  a 
little  baby  had  been  born.  If  Gregory  stood  up 
and  looked  out  at  the  window  he  would  see  a  blue 
gum-tree  in  the  graveyard ;  close  by  it  was  a  little 
grave.  The  baby  was  buried  there.  A  tiny  thing, 
only  lived  two  hours,  and  the  mother  herself  al 
most  went  with  it.  After  a  while  she  was  better  j 
but  one  day  she  got  up  out  of  bed,  dressed  her 
self  without  saying  a  word  to  any  one,  and  went 
out.  It  was  a  drizzly  day;  a  little  time  after 
some  one  saw  her  sitting  on  the  wet  ground  under 
the  blue  gum-tree,  with  the  rain  dripping  from  her 
hat  and  shawl.  They  went  to  fetch  her,  but  she 
would  not  come  until  she  chose.  When  she  did 
she  had  gone  to  bed,  and  had  not  risen  again 
from  it ;  never  would,  the  doctor  said. 

She  was  very  patient,  poor  thing.     When  you 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  34S 

went  in  to  ask  her  how  she  was  she  said  always 
"  Better  "  or  "  Nearly  well !  "  and  lay  still  in  the 
darkened  room,  and  never  troubled  any  one. 
The  Mozambiquer  took  care  of  her,  and  she 
would  not  allow  anyone  else  to  touch  her;  would 
not  so  much  as  allow  any  one  else  to  see  her  foot 
uncovered.  She  was  strange  in  many  ways,  but 
she  paid  well,  poor  thing  ;  and  now  the  Mozam- 
biquer was  going,  and  she  would  have  to  take  up 
with  some  one  else. 

The  landlady  prattled  on  pleasantly,  and  now 
carried  away  the  tray  with  the  breakfast-things. 
When  she  was  gore  Gregory*leaned  his  head  on 
his  hands,  but  he  did  not  think  long. 

Before  dinner  he  had  ridden  out  of  the  town  to 
where  on  a  rise  a  number  of  transport-wagons 
were  out-spanned.  The  Dutchman  driver  of  one 
wondered  at  the  stranger's  eagerness  to  free  him- 
self of  his  horses.  Stolen  perhaps ;  but  it  was 
worth  his  while  to  buy  them  at  so  low  a  price. 
So  the  horses  changed  masters  and  Gregory 
walked  off  with  his  saddle-bags  slung  across  his 
arms.  Once  out  of  sight  of  the  wagons  he  struck 
out  of  the  road  and  walked  across  the  veld, 
the  dry,  flowering  grasses  waving  everywhere 
about  him;  half-way  across  the  plain  he  came  to 
a  deep  gully  which  the  rain  torrents  had  washed 
out,  but  which  was  now  dry.  Gregory  sprang 
down  into  its  red  bed.  It  was  a  safe  place,  and 
quiet.  When  he  had  looked  about  him  he  sat 
down  under  the  shade  of  an  overhanging  bank 
and  fanned  himself  with  his  hat,  for  the  afternoon 
was  hot  and  he  had  walked  fast.     At  his  feet  the 


346  THE  STORY  Ot* 

dusty  ants  ran  about,  and  the  high  redshank 
before  him  was  covered  by  a  network  of  roots  and 
fibers  washed  bare  by  the  rains.  Above  his  head 
rose  the  clear  blue  African  sky ;  at  his  side  were 
the  saddle-bags  full  of  women's  clothing.  Greg- 
ory looked  up  half  plaintively  into  the  blue  sky. 

"  Am  I,  am  I  Gregory  Nazianzen  Rose  ?  "  he 
said. 

It  was  all  so  strange,  he  sitting  there  in  that 
"  sloot  "  in  that  up-country  plain  ! — strange  as 
the  fantastic,  changing  shapes  in  a  summer 
cloud.  At  last,  tireji  out,  he  fell  asleep,  with  his 
head  against  the  bank.  When  he  awoke  the 
shadow  had  stretched  across  the  "  sloot  "  and  the 
sun  was  on  the  edge  of  the  plain.  Now  he  must 
be  up  and  doing.  He  drew  from  his  breast- 
pocket a  little  sixpenny  looking-glass,  and  hung 
it  on  one  of  the  roots  that  stuck  out  from  the 
bank.  Then  he  dressed  himself  in  one  of  the 
old  fashioned  gowns  and  a  great  pinked-out  col- 
lar. Then  he  took  out  a  razor.  Tuft  by  tuft  the 
soft  brown  beard  fell  down  into  the  sand,  and  the 
little  ants  took  it  to  line  their  nests  with.  Then 
the  glass  showed  a  face  surrounded  by  a  frilled 
cap,  white  as  a  woman's,  with  a  little  mouth,  a 
very  short  upper  lip,  and  a  receding  chin. 

Presently  a  rather  tall  woman's  figure  was  mak^ 
ing  its  way  across  the  "  veld."  As  it  passed  a 
hollowed-out  ant-heap  it  knelt  down,  and  stuffed 
in  the  saddle-bags  with  the  man's  clothing,  clos- 
ing up  the  ant-hill  with  bits  of  ground  to  look  as 
natural  as  possible.  Like  a  sinner  hiding  his 
deed  of  sin,  the  hider  started  once  and  looked 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  347 

round,  but  yet  there  was  no  one  near  save  a 
'*  meerkat,"  who  had  lifted  herself  out  of  her  hole 
and  sat  on  her  hind  legs  watching.  He  did  not 
like  that  even  she  should  see,  and  when  he  rose 
she  dived  away  into  her  hole.  Then  he  walked 
on  leisurely,  that  the  dusk  might  have  reached  the 
village  streets  before  he  walked  there.  The  first 
house  was  the  smith's,  and  before  the  open  door 
two  idle  urchins  lolled.  Ashe  hurried  up  the 
street  in  the  gathering  gloom  he  heard  them 
laugh  long  and  loudly  behind  him.  He  glanced 
round  fearingly,  and  would  almost  have  fled,  but 
that  the  strange  skirts  clung  about  his  legs, 
And  after  all  it  was  only  a  spark  that  had  alighted 
on  the  head  of  one,  and  not  the  strange  figure 
they  laughed  at. 

The  door  of  the  hotel  stood  wide  open,  and  thv, 
light  fell  out  into  the  street.  He  knocked,  anJt 
the  landlady  came.  She  peered  out  to  look  for 
the  cart  that  had  brought  the  traveler  ;  but  Greg- 
ory's heart  was  brave  now  he  was  so  near  th^a 
quiet  room.  He  told  her  he  had' come  with  ti>3 
transport-wagons  that  stood  outside  the  town. 

He  had  walked  in,  and  wanted  lodgings  for  tho 
night. 

It  was  a  deliberate  lie,  glibly  told ;  he  wouij 
have  told  fifty,  though  the  recording  angel  ha4 
stood  in  the  next  room  with  his  pen  dipped  in 
the  ink.  What  was  it  to  him  ?  He.  remembered 
that  she  lay  there  saying  always,  "  I  am  better/' 

The  landlady  put  his  supper  in  the  little  parlor 
where  he  had  sat  in  the  morning.  When  it  was 
on  the  table  she  sat  down  in  the  rocking-chair,  as 


348  THE  STOR  Y  OF 

her  fashion  was,  to  knit  and  talk,  that  she  might 
gather  news  for  her  customers  in  the  tap-room. 
In  the  white  face  under  the  queer,  deep-fringed 
cap  she  saw  nothing  of  the  morning's  traveler. 
The  new-comer  was  communicative.  She  was  a 
nurse  by  profession,  she  said ;  had  come  to  the 
Transvaal,  hearing  that  good  nurses  were  needed 
there.  She  had  not  yet  found  work.  The  land- 
lady did  not  perhaps  know  whether  there  would 
be  any  for  her  in  that  town  ? 

The  landlady  put  down  her  knitting  and  smote 
her  fat  hands  together. 

If  it  wasn't  the  very  finger  of  God's  Providence, 
as  though  you  saw  it  hanging  out  of  the  sky,  she 
said.  Here  was  a  lady  ill  and  needing  a  new 
nurse  that  very  day,  and  not  able  to  get  one  to 
her  mind,  and  now — well,  if  it  wasn't  enough  to 
convert  all  the  atheists  and  freethinkers  in  the 
Transvaal  she  didn't  know  ! 

Then  the  landlady  proceeded  to  detail  facts. 

"I'm  sure  you  will  suit  her,"  she  added \ 
"  you're  just  the  kind.  She  has  heaps  of  money 
to  pay  you  with ;  has  everything  that  money  can 
buy.  And  I  got  a  letter  with  a  check  in  it  for 
fifty  pounds  the  other  day  from  some  one,  who 
says  I'm  to  spend  it  for  her,  and  not  to  let  her 
know.  She  is  asleep  now,  but  I'll  take  you  in  to 
look  at  her." 

The  landlady  opened  the  door  of  the  next 
room,  and  Gregory  followed  her.  A  table  stood 
near  the  bed,  and  a  lamp  burning  low  stood  on 
it ;  the  bed  was  a  great  four-poster  with  white 
curtains,  and  the  quilt  was  of  rich  crimson  satin* 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  349 

But  Gregory  stood  just  inside  the  door  with  his 
head  bent  low,  and  saw  no  further. 

"  Come  nearer  !  I'll  turn  the  lamp  up  a  bit, 
that  you  can  have  a  look  at  her.  A  pretty  thing, 
isn't  it  ? "  said  the  landlady. 

Near  the  foot  of  the  bed  was  a  dent  in  the 
crimson  quilt,  and  out  of  it  Doss's  small  head  and 
bright  eyes  looked  knowingly. 

"  See  how  the  lips  move ;  she  is  in  pain,"  said 
the  landlady. 

Then  Gregory  looked  up  at  what  lay  on  the 
cushion.  A  little  white,  white  face,  transparent 
as  an  angel's,  with  a  cloth  bound  round  the  fore- 
head, and  with  soft  short  hair  tossed  about  on 
the  pillow. 

"  We  had  to  cut  it  off,"  said  the  woman,  touch- 
ing it  with  her  forefinger.  "  Soft  as  silk,  like  a 
wax  doll's." 

But  Gregory's  heart  was  bleeding. 

"  Never  get  up  again,  the  doctor  says,"  said 
the  landlady. 

Gregory  uttered  one  word.  In  an  instant  the 
beautiful  eyes  opened  widely,  looked  round  the 
room  and  into  the  dark  corners. 

"  Who  is  here  ?     Whom  did  I  hear  speak  ?  " 

Gregory  had  sunk  back  behind  the  curtain; 
the  landlady  drew  it  aside,  and  pulled -him  for- 
ward. 

"  Only  this  lady,  ma'am — a  nurse  by  profession. 
She  is  willing  to  stay  and  take  care  of  you,  if  you 
can  come  to  terms  with  her." 

Lyndall  raised  herself  on  her  elbow,  and  cast 
one  keen  scrutinizing  glance  over  him. 


350  THE  STORY  OF 

"  Have  I  never  seen  you  before  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No." 

She  fell  back  wearily. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  arrange  the  terms 
between  yourselves/'  said  the  landlady.  "  Here 
is  a  chair.     I  will  be  back  presently." 

Gregory  sat  down,  with  bent  head  and  quick 
breath.  She  did  not  speak,  and  lay  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  seeming  to  have  forgotten  him. 

"  Will  you  turn  the  lamp  down  a  little  ?  "  she 
said  at  last ;  "  I  cannot  bear  the  light." 

Then  his  heart  grew  braver  in  the  shadow,  and 
he  spoke.  Nursing  was  to  him,  he  said,  his 
chosen  life's  work.  He  wanted  no  money  *.  if 
She  stopped  him. 

li  I  take  no  service  for  which  I  do  not  pay,"  she 
said.  "  What  I  gave  to  my  last  nurse  I  will  give 
to  you  :  if  you  do  not  like  it  you  may  go." 

And  Gregory  muttered  humbly  he  would  take 
it. 

Afterward  she  tried  to  turn  herself.  He  lifted 
her.  Ah  !  a  shrunken  little  body,  he  could  feel 
its  weakness  as  he  touched  it.  His  hands  were  to 
him  glorified  for  what  they  had  done. 

"  Thank  you  1  that  is  so  nice.  Other  people 
hurt  me  when  they  touch  me,"  she  said.  "  Thank 
you  ! "  Then  after  a  little  while  she  repeated 
humbly,  "  Thank  you  ;  they  hurt  me  so." 

Gregory  sat  down  trembling.  His  little  ewe- 
lamb,  could  they  hurt  her  ? 

The  doctor  said  of  Gregory  four  days  after, 
*'  She  is  the  most  experienced  nurse  I  ever  camt; 
in  contact  with." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  35 1 

Gregory,  standing  in  the  passage,  heara  it,  and 
laughed  in  his  heart.  What  need  had  he  of  ex- 
perience ?  Experience  teaches  us  in  a  millennium 
what  passion  teaches  us  in  an  hour.  A  Kaffir 
studies  all  his  life  the  discerning  of  distant  sounds ; 
but  he  will  never  hear  my  step,  when  my  love 
hears  it,  coming  to  her  window  in  the  dark  over 
the  short  grass. 

At  first  Gregory's  heart  was  sore  when  day  by 
day  the  body  grew  lighter,  and  the  mouth  he  fed 
took  less  ;  but  afterward  he  grew  accustomed  to 
it,  and  was  happy.  For  passion  has  one  cry,  one 
only — "  Oh,  to  touch  thee,  Beloved  !  " 

In  that  quiet  room  Lyndall  lay  on  the  bed  with 
the  dog  at  her  feet,  and  Gregory  sat  in  his  dark 
corner  watching. 

She  seldom  slept,  and  through  those  long,  long 
days  she  would  lie  watching  the  round  streak  of 
sunlight  that  came  through  the  knot  in  the  shutter, 
or  the  massive  lion's  paw  on  which  the  wardrobe 
rested.  What  thoughts  were  in  those  eyes  ?  Greg- 
ory wondered  ;  he  dared  not  ask. 

Sometimes  Doss  where  he  lay  on  her  feet  would 
dream  that  they  two  were  in  the  cart,  tearing  over 
the  "  veld,"  with  the  black  horses  snorting,  and 
the  wind  in  their  faces  ;  and  he  would  start  up  in 
his  sleep  and  bark  aloud.  Then  awaking,  he 
would  lick  his  mistress's  hand  almost  remorsefully, 
and  slink  quietly  down  into  his  place. 

Gregory  thought  she  had  no  pain,  she  never 
groaned ;  only  sometimes,  when  the  light  was 
v*ear  her,  he  thought  he  could  see  slight  con- 
tractions about  her  lips  and  eyebrows. 


352  THE  STORY  OF 

He  slept  on  the  sofa  outside  her  door. 

One  night  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound,  and, 
opening  it  softly,  he  looked  in.  She  was  crying 
out  aloud,  as  if  she  and  her  pain  were  alone  in  the 
world.  The  light  fell  on  the  red  quilt,  and  the 
little  hands  that  were  clasped  over  the  head. 
The  wide-open  eyes  were  looking  up,  and  the 
heavy  drops  fell  slowly  from  them. 

"  I  cannot  bear  any  more,  not  any  more,"  she 
said  in  a  deep  voice.  "  Oh,  God,  God !  have  I 
not  born  in  silence  ?  Have  I  not  endured  these 
long,  long  months  ?  But  now,  now,  oh  God,  I 
cannot !  " 

Gregory  knelt  in  the  doorway  listening. 

"  I  do  not  ask  for  wisdom,  not  human  love, 
not  work,  not  knowledge,  not  for  all  things  I  have 
longed  for,"  she  cried ;  "  only  a  little  freedom 
from  pain !  only  one  little  hour  without  pain  ! 
Then  I  will  suffer  again." 

She  sat  up  and  bit  the  little  hand  Gregory  loved. 

He  crept  away  to  the  front  door,  and  stood 
looking  out  at  the  quiet  starlight.  When  he  came 
back  she  was  lying  in  her  usual  posture,  the  quiet 
eyes  looking  at  the  lion's  claw.  He  came  close 
to  the  bed. 

"  You  have  much  pain  to-night  ? "  he  asked  her. 

"  No,  not  much." 

44  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  nothing." 

She  still  drew  her  lips  together,  and  motionec* 
with  her  fingers  toward  the  dog  who  lay  sleeping 
at  hf»r  feet.  Gregory  lifted  him  and  laid  him  at 
ber   side.      She   made   Gregory   turn    open   the 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  353 

bosom  of  her  night-dress  that  the  dog  might 
put  his  black  muzzle  between  her  breasts.  Sho 
crossed  her  arms  over  him.  Gregory  left  them 
lying  there  together. 

The  next  day  when  they  asked  her  how  she 
was,  she  answered  "  Better." 

"Some  one  ought  to  tell  her,"  said  the  land- 
lady ;  "  we  can't  let  her  soul  go  out  into  eternity 
not  knowing,  especially  when  I  don't  think  it  was 
all  right  about  the  child.  You  ought  to  go  and 
tell  her,  Doctor."  S  B 

So,  the  little  doctor,  edged  on  and  on,  went  in 
at  last.  When  he  came  out  of  the  room  he  shook 
his  fist  in  the  landlady's  face. 

"  Next  time  you  have  any  devil's  work  to  do- 
do it  yourself,"  he  said,  and  shook  his  fist  in  her 
face  again,  and  went  away  swearing. 

When  Gregory  went  into  the  bedroom  he  only 
found  her  moved;  her  body  curled  up,  and  drawn 
close  to  the  wall.  He  dared  not  disturb  her.  At 
last,  after  a  long  time,  she  turned. 

"  Bring  me  food,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to  eat. 
Two  eggs,  and  toast,  and  meat— two  large  slices 
of  toast,  please." 

Wondering,  Gregory  brought  a  tray  with  all 
that  she  had  asked  for. 

"  Sit  me  up,  and  put  it  close  to  me,"  she  said  - 
"  I  am  going  to  eat  it  all."  She  tried  to  draw  the 
things  near  her  with  her  fingers,  and  re-arranged 
the  plates.  She  cut  the  toast  into  long  strips, 
broke  open  both  eggs,  put  a  tiny  morsel  of 
bread  into  her  own  mouth,  and  fed  the  dog  with 
pieces  of  meat  put  into  his  jaws  with  her  fingers, 
23 


354  THE  STORY  OF 

61  Is  it  twelve  o'clock  yet  ? "  she  said  ;  "  I  think 
I  do  not  generally  eat  so  early.  Put  it  away  care- 
fully, please — no,  do  not  take  it  away — only  on 
the  table.  When  the  clock  strikes  twelve  I  will 
eat  it." 

She  lay  down  trembling.  After  a  little  she 
said, 

"  Give  me  my  clothes." 

He  looked  at  her. 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  going  to  dress  to-morrow.  I  should 
get  up  now  but  it  is  rather  late.  Put  them  on  that 
chair.  My  collars  are  in  the  little  box,  my  boots 
behind  the  door." 

Her  eyes  followed  him  intently  as  he  collected 
the  articles  one  by  one,  and  placed  them  on  the 
chair  as  she  directed. 

"  Put  it  nearer,"  she  said  ;  "  I  cannot  see  it ;  " 
and  she  lay  watching  the  clothes,  with  her  hand 
under  her  cheek. 

"  Now  open  the  shutter  wide,"  she  said  ;  "  I 
am  going  to  read." 

The  old,  old  tone  was  again  in  the  sweet  voice. 
He  obeyed  her ;  and  opened  the  shutter,  and 
raised  her  up  among  the  pillows. 

"  Now  bring  my  books  to  me,"  she  said,  motion* 
ing  eagerly  with  her  fingers  ;  "  the  large  book, 
and  the  reviews,  and  the  plays  ;  I  want  them  all." 

He  piled  them  round  her  on  the  bed ;  she  drew 
them  greedily  closer,  her  eyes  very  bright,  but 
her  face  as  white  as  a  mountain-lily. 

"  Now  the  big  one  off  the  drawers.  No,  you 
need  not  help  me  to  hold  my  book,"  she  said;  "1 
can  hold  it  for  myself." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  355 

Gregory  went  back  to  his  corner,  and  for  a  little 
time  the  restless  turning  over  of  leaves  was  to  be 
heard. 

"  Will  you  open  the  window,"  she  said,  almost 
querulously,  "  and  throw  this  book  out  ?  It  is  so 
utterly  foolish.  I  thought  it  was  a  valuable  book ; 
but  the  words  are  merely  strung  together,  they 
make  no  sense.  Yes — so  !  "  she  said  with  ap- 
proval, seeing  him  fling  it  out  into  the  street.  "  I 
must  have  been  very  foolish  when  I  thought  that 
book  good." 

Then  she  turned  to  read,  and  leaned  her  little 
elbows  resolutely  on  the  great  volume,  and  knit 
her  brows.  This  was  Shakespeare — it  must  mean 
something. 

"  I  wish  you  would  take  a  handkerchief  and  tie 
it  tight  round  my  head,  it  aches  so." 

He  had  not  been  long  in  his  seat  when  he  saw 
drops  fall  from  beneath  the  hands  that  shaded 
the  eyes,  on  to  the  page. 

u  I  am  not  accustomed  to  so  much  light,  it 
makes  my  head  swim  a  little,"  she  said.  "  Go 
out  and  close  the  shutter." 

When  he  came  back,  she  lay  shriveled  up 
among  the  pillows. 

He  heard  no  sound  of  weeping ;  but  the 
shoulders  shook.  He  darkened  the  room  com- 
pletely. 

When  Gregory  went  to  his  sofa  that  night,  she 
told  him  to  wake  her  early  ;  she  would  be  dressed 
before  breakfast.  Nevertheless,  when  morning 
eame,  she  said  it  was  a  little  cold,  and  lay  all  day 
watching  her  clothes  upon  the  chair.     Still  she 


35  6  THE  STORY  OF 

sent  for  her  oxen  in  the  country  •  they  would  start 
on  Monday  and  go  down  to  the  Colony. 

In  the  afternoon  she  told  him  to  open  tSie 
window  wide,  and  draw  the  bed  near  it. 

It  was  a  leaden  afternoon,  the  dull  rain-clouds 
rested  close  to  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  and  the 
little  street  was  silent  and  deserted.  Now  and 
then  a  gust  of  wind  eddying  round  caught  up  ttte 
dried  leaves,  whirled  them  hither  and  thither 
under  the  trees,  and  dropped  them  again  into  the 
gutter :  then  all  was  quiet.  She  lay  looking  out. 
Presently  the  bell  of  the  church  began  to  toll, 
and  up  the  village  street  came  a  long  procession. 
They  were  carrying  an  old  man  to  his  last  rest- 
ing-place. She  followed  them  with  her  eyes  till 
they  turned  in  among  the  trees  at  the  gate. 

"  Who  was  that  ? "  she  asked. 

"  An  old  man,"  he  answered,  "  a  very  old  man  ; 
they  say  he  was  ninety-four ;  but  his  name  I  do 
not  know." 

She  mused  a  while,  looking  out  with  fixed 
eyes. 

"  That  is  why  the  bell  rang  so  cheerfully,"  she 
said.  "  When  the  old  die  it  is  well ;  they  have 
had  their  time.  It  is  when  the  young  die  that  the 
bells  weep  drops  of  blood."  . 

"  But  the  old  love  life,"  he  said  ;  for  it  was  sweet 
to  hear  her  speak. 

She  raised  herself  on  her  elbow. 

"  They  love  life,  they  do  not  want  to  die,"  she 
answered  ;  "  but  what  of  that  ?  They  have  had 
their  time.  They  knew  that  a  man's  life  is  three- 
Score  years  and  ten  ;  they  should  have  made  their 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  357 

plans  accordingly !  But  the  young,"  she  said — 
"  the  young,  cut  down,  cruelly,  when  they  have 
not  seen,  when  they  have  not  known — when  they 
have  not  found— it  is  for  them  that  the  bells 
weep  blood,     I  heard  in  the   ringing  it  was  an 

old  man.     When  the  old  die Listen  to  the 

bell !  it  is   laughing—'  It   is   right,  it  is  right ;  he 
has  had  his  time.'     They  cannot  ring  so  for  the 
.young." 

She  fell  back  exhausted  ;  the  hot  light  died  from 
her  eyes,  and  she  lay  looking  out  into  the  street. 
By  and  by  stragglers  from  the  funeral  began  to 
come  back  and  disappear  here  and  there  among 
the  houses  ;  then  all  was  quiet,  and  the  night 
began  to  settle  down  upon  the  village  street. 
Afterward,  when  the  room  was  almost  dark,  so 
that  they  could  not  see  each  other's  faces,  she 
said,  "  It  will  rain  to-night ;  "  and  moved  restlessly 
on  the  pillows.  "  How  terrible  when  the  rain 
falls  down  on  you." 

He  wondered  what  she  meant,  and  they  sat  on 
in  the  still  darkening  room.     She  moved  again. 

"  Will  you  presently  take  my  cloak — the  new 
gray  cloak  from  behind  the  door — and  go  out 
with  it  ?  You  will  find  a  little  grave  at  the  foot  of 
the  tall  blue  gum-tree  ;  the  water  drips  off  the 
long,  pointed  leaves:  you  must  cover  it  up  with 
that."  F 

She  moved  restlessly  as  though  in  pain. 

Gregory  assented,  and  there  was  silence  again. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  spoken  of  her 
child. 

"  It  was  so  small,"  she  said  j  "  it  lived  such  a 


358  THE  STORY  OF 

little  while — only  three  hours.  They  laid  it  close 
by  me,  but  I  never  saw  it ;  I  could  feel  it  by  me." 
She  waited.  "  Its  feet  were  so  cold  ;  I  took  them 
in  my  hand  to  make  them  warm,  and  my  hand 
closed  right  over  them  they  were  so  little."  There 
was  an  uneven  trembling  in  the  voice.  "  It  crept 
close  to  me ;  it  wanted  to  drink,  it  wanted  to  be 
warm."  She  hardened  herself.  "  I  did  not  love 
it ;  its  father  was  not  my  prince  ;  I  did  not  care  for 
it ;  but  it  was  so  little."  She  moved  her  hand. 
"  They  might  have  kissed  it,  one  of  them,  before 
they  put  it  in.  It  never  did  any  one  any  harm  in 
all  its  little  life.  They  might  have  kissed  it,  one 
of  them." 

Gregory  felt  that  some  one  was  sobbing  in  the 
room. 

Late  on  in  the  evening,  when  the  shutter  was 
closed  and  the  lamp  lighted,  and  the  rain-drops 
beat  on  the  roof,  he  took  the  cloak  from  behind 
the  door  and  went  away  with  it.  On  his  way 
back  he  called  at  the  village  post-office  and 
brought  back  a  letter.  In  the  hall  he  stood  read- 
ing the  address.  How  could  he  fail  to  know 
whose  hand  had  written  it  ?  Had  he  not  long  ago 
studied  those  characters  on  the  torn  fragments 
of  paper  in  the  old  parlor  ?  A  burning  pain  was 
at  Gregory's  heart.  If  now,  now  at  the  last,  one 
should  come,  should  step  in  between  !  He  carried 
the  letter  into  the  bedroom  and  gave  it  her. 
"  Bring  me  the  lamp  nearer,"  she  said.  When 
she  had  read  it  she  asked  for  her  desk. 

Then  Gregory  sat  down  in  the  lamp-light  on  the 
other  side  of  the  curtain,  and  heard  the  pencil 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  359 

move  on  the  paper.  When  he  looked  round  the 
curtain  she  was  lying  on  the  pillow  musing.  The 
open  letter  lay  at  her  side ;  she  glanced  at  it  with 
soft  eyes.  The  man  with  the  languid  eyelids 
must  have  been  strangely  moved  before  his  hand 
set  down  those  words  :  "  Let  me  come  back  to 
you  !  My  darling,  let  me  put  my  hand  round  you, 
and  guard  you  from  all  the  world.  As  my  wife 
they  shall  never  touch  you.  I  have  learnt  to  love 
you  more  wisely,  more  tenderly,  than  of  old ; 
you  shall  have  perfect  freedom.  Lyndall,  grand 
little  woman,  for  your  own  sake  be  my  wife  ! 

"  Why  did  you  send  that  money  back  to  me  ? 
You  are  cruel  to  me ;  it  is  not  rightly  done." 

She  rolled  the  little  red  pencil  softly  between 
her  fingers,  and  her  face  grew  very  soft.     Yet — 

"  It  cannot  be,"*she  wrote  ;  "  I  thank  you  much 
for  the  love  you  have  shown  me  ;  but  I  cannot 
listen.  You  will  call  me  mad,  foolish — the  world 
would  do  so ;  but  I  know  what  I  need  and  the 
kind  of  path  I  must  walk  in.  I  cannot  marry 
you.  I  will  always  love  you  for  the  sake  of  what 
lay  by  me  those  three  hours  ;  but  there  it  ends. 
I  must  know  and  see,  I  cannot  be  bound  to  one 
whom  I  love  as  I  love  you.  I  am  not  afraid  of 
the  world — I  will  fight  the  world.  One  day — per- 
haps it  may  be  far  off — I  shall  find  what  I  have 
wanted  all  my.  life  ;  something  nobler,  stronger 
than  I,  before  which  I  can  kneel  down.  You  lose 
nothing  by  not  having  me  now;  I  am  a  weak, 
selfish,  erring  woman.  One  day  I  shall  find 
something  to  worship,  and  then  I  shall  be -" 

"Nurse,"  she 'said,    "take  my  desk  away;   I 


2&0  THE  STORY  OF 

am  suddenly  so  sleepy  ;  I  will  write  more  to-mor- 
row." She  turned  her  face  to  the  pillow ;  it  was 
the  sudden  drowsiness  of  great  weakness.  She 
had  dropped  asleep  in  a  moment,  and  Gregory 
moved  the  desk  softly,  and  then  sat  in  the  chair 
watching.  Hour  after  hour  passed,  but  he  had 
no  wish  for  rest,  and  sat  on,  hearing  the  rain 
cease,  and  the  still  night  settle  down  everywhere. 
At  a  quarter-past  twelve  he  rose,  and  took  a  last 
look  at  the  bed  where  she  lay  sleeping  so  peace- 
fully ;  then  he  turned  to  go  to  his  couch.  Before 
he  had  reached  the  door  she  had  started  up  and 
was  calling  him  back. 

"  You  are  sure  you  have  put  it  up  ?  "  she  said, 
with  a  look  of  blank  terror  at  the  window.  "  It 
will  not  fall  open  in  the  night,  the  shutter — you 
aresure?  " 

He  comforted  her.    Yes,  it  was  tightly  fastened 

"  Even  if  it  is  shut,"  she  said  in  a  whisper. 
"  you  cannot  keep  it  out !  You  feel  it  coming  in 
at  four  o'clock,  creeping,  creeping,  up,  up  ;  deadly 
cold  !  "     She  shuddered. 

He  thought  she  was  wandering,  and  laid  hei 
little  trembling  body   down  among  the  blankets. 

"  I  dreamed  just  now  that  it  was  not  put  up," 
she  said,  looking  into  his  eyes  ;  "  and  it  crept  right 
in  and  I  was  alone  with  it." 

"  What  do  you  fear  ?  "  he  asked  tenderly. 

"  The  Gray  Dawn,"  she  said,  glancing  round 
at  the  window.  "  I  was  never  afraid  of  anything, 
never  when  I  was  a  little  child,  but  I  have  always 
been  afraid  of  that,  You  will  not  let  it  come  in 
to  me  ? " 


AN  AFRICA  N  FA  RM.  361 

"  No,  no ;  I  will  stay  with  you,5'  he  continued. 

But  she  was  growing  calmer,  "  No  ;    you  must 

go  to  bed.     I  only  awoke  with  a  start ;    you  must 

be  tired.     I  am  childish,  that   is  all ;  "  but  she 

shivered  again. 

He  sat  down  .beside  her.  After  some  time  she 
said,  "  Will  you  not  rub  my  feet  ?  " 

He  knelt  down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  took 
the  tiny  foot  in  his  hand;  it  was  swollen  and 
unsightly  now,  but  as  he  touched  it  he  bent  down 
and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

"  It  makes  it  better  when  you  kiss  it :  thank 
you.  What  makes  you  all  love  me  so  ? "  Then 
dreamily  she  muttered  to  herself :  "  Not  utterly 
bad,  not  quite  bad— what  makes  them  all  love 
me  so  ?  " 

Kneeling  there,  rubbing  softly,  with  his  cheek 
pressed  against  the  little  foot,  Gregory  dropped 
to  sleep  at  last.  How  long  he  knelt  there  he 
could  not  tell ;  but  when  he  started  up  awake 
she  was  not  looking  at  him.  The  eyes  were  fixed 
on  the  far  corner,  gazing  wide  and  intent,  with 
an  unearthy  light. 

He  looked  round  fearfully.  What  did  she  see 
there  ?  God's  angels  come  to  call  her  ?  Some- 
thing fearful  ?  He  saw  only  the  purple  curtain 
with  the  shadows  that  fell  from  it.  Softly  he 
whispered,  asking  what  she  saw  there. 

And  she  said,  in  a  voice  strangely  unlike  her 
own,  "  I  see  the  vision  of  a  poor  weak  soul  striv- 
ing  after  good.  It  was  not  cut  short ;  and,  in 
the  end,  it  learnt,  through  tears  and  much  pain, 
tnat  holiness  is  an  infinite  compassion  for  others; 


362  THE  STORY  OF 

that  greatness  is  to  take  the  common  things  of 
life  and  walk  truly  among  them ;  that  " — she 
moved  her  white  hand  and  laid  it  on  her  forehead 
— "  happiness  is  a  great  love  and  much  serving. 
It  was  not  cut  short ;  and  it  loved  what  it  had 
learnt — it  loved — and " 

Was  that  all  she  saw  in  the  corner  ? 

Gregory  told  the  landlady  the  next  morning 
that  she  had  been  wandering  all  night.  Yet, 
when  he  came  in  to  give  her  her  breakfast,  she 
was  sitting  up  against  the  pillow,  looking  as  he 
had  not  seen  her  look  before. 

"  Put  it  close  to  me,"  she  said,  "  and  when  I 
have  had  breakfast  I  am  going  to  dress." 

She  finished  all  he  had  brought  her  eagerly. 

"  I  am  sitting  up  quite  by  myself,"  she  said. 
"  Give  me  his  meat ;  "  and  she  fed  the  dog  her- 
self, cutting  his  food  small  for  him.  She  moved 
to  the  side  of  the  bed. 

"  Now  bring  the  chair  near  and  dress  me.  It 
is  being  in  this  room  so  long,  and  looking  at  that 
miserable  little  bit  of  sunshine  that  comes  in 
through  the  shutter,  that  is  making  me  so  ill. 
Always  that  lion's  paw  ! "  she  said,  with  a  look 
of  disgust  at  it.  "  Come  and  dress  me."  Greg- 
ory knelt  on  the  floor  before  her,  and  tried  to 
draw  on  one  stocking,  but  the  little  swollen  foot 
refused  to  be  covered. 

"  It  is  very  funny  that  I  should  have  grown  so 
fat  since  I  have  been  so  ill,"  she  said,  peering 
down  curiously.  "  Perhaps  it  is  want  of  exer- 
cise ? "  She  looked  troubled  and  said  again, 
**  Perhaps  it  is  want  of  exercise."     She  wanted 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  ^ 

Gregory  to  say  so  too.  But  he  only  found  a 
larger  pair;  and  then  tried  to  force  the  shoes, 
oh,  so  tenderly  !  on  to  her  little  feet. 

"  There,"  she  said,  looking  down  at  them  when 
they  were  on,  with  the  delight  of  a  small  child 
over  its  first  shoes,  "  I  could  walk  far  now.  How 
nice  it  looks  !  " 

"No,"  she  said,  seeing  the  soft  gown  he  had 
prepared  for  her,  "  I  will  not  put  that  on.  Get 
one  of  my  white  dresses — the  one  with  the  pink 
bows.  I  do  not  even  want  to  think  I  have  been 
ill.  It  is  thinking  and  thinking  of  things  that 
makes  them  real,"  she  said.  "  When  you  draw 
your  mind  together,  and  resolve  that  a  thing  shall 
not  be,  it  gives  way  before  you  ;  it  is  not.  Every- 
thing is  possible  if  one  is  resolved,"  she  said. 
She  drew  in  her  little  lips  together,  and  Gregory 
obeyed  her ;  she  was  so  small  and  slight  now  it 
was  like  dressing  a  small  doll.  He  would  have 
lifted  her  down  from  the  bed  when  he  had  fin- 
ished, but  she  pushed  him  from  her,  laughing 
very  softly.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  laughed 
in  those  long  dreary  months. 

"  No,  no ;  I  can  get  down  myself,"  she  said, 
slipping  cautiously  on  to  the  floor.  "  You  see  !  " 
She  cast  a  defiant  glance  of  triumph  when  she 
stood  there.  "  Hold  the  curtain  up  high,  I  want 
to  look  at  myself." 

He  raised  it,  and  stood  holding  it.  She  looked 
into  the  glass  on  the  opposite  wall.  Such  a 
queenly  little  figure  in  its  pink  and  white.  Such 
a  transparent  little  face,  refined  by  suffering  into 
an  almost  angel-like  beauty.     The  face  looked  at 


3G4  THE  STOR  Y  OF 

her ;  she  looked  back,  laughing  softly.  Doss, 
quivering  with  excitement,  ran  round  her,  bark- 
ing. She  took  one  step  toward  the  door,  balanc- 
ing herself  with  outstretched  hands. 

"  I  am  nearly  there,"  she  said. 

Then  she  groped  blindly. 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  see !  I  cannot  see !  Where 
am  I  ?  "  she  cried. 

When  Gregory  reached  her  she  had  fallen  with 
her  face  against  the  sharp  foot  of  the  wardrobe 
and  cut  her  forehead.  Very  tenderly  he  raised 
the  little  crushed  heap  of  muslin  and  ribbons  and 
laid  it  on  the  bed.  Doss  climbed  up,  and  sat 
looking  down  at  it.  Very  softly  Gregory's  hands 
disrobed  her. 

"You  will  be  stronger  to-morrow,  and  then  we 
shall  try  again,"  he  said,  but  she  neither  looked 
at  him  nor  stirred. 

When  he  had  undressed  her,  and  laid  her  in  bed, 
Doss  stretched  himself  across  her  feet  and  lay 
whining  softly. 

So  she  lay  all  that  morning,  and  all  that  after- 
noon. 

Again  and   again  Gregory  crept  close  to  the 
bedside  and  looked  at  her ;  but  she  did  not  speak 
to  him.     Was  it  stupor  or  was  it  sleep  that  shone 
under  those  half -closed  eyelids  ?     Gregory  co 
not  tell. 

At  last  in  the  evening  he  bent  over  her. 

"  The  oxen  have  come,"  he  said  ;  "  we  can 
start  to-morrow  if  you  like.  Shall  I  get  the  wagon 
ready  to-night  ? " 

Twice   he  repeated  his   question.     Then  she 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  365 

looked  up  at  him,  and  Gregory  saw  that  all  hope 
had  died  out  of  the  beautiful  eyes.  It  was  not 
stupor  that  shone  there,  it  was  despair. 

"  Yes,  let  us  go,"  she  said. 

"  It  makes  no  difference,"  said  the  doctor ; 
"  staying  or  going ;  it  is  close  now." 

So  the  next  day^  Gregory  carried  her  out  in  his 
arms  to  the  wagon  which  stood  "  in-spanned " 
before  the  door.  As  he  laid  her  down  on  the 
"  kartel  "  she  looked  far  out  across  the  plain. 
For  the  first  time  she  spoke  that  day. 

"  That  blue  mountain,  far  away ;  let  us  stop 
when  we  get  to  it,  not  before."  She  closed  her 
eyes  again.  He  drew  the  sails  down  before  and 
behind,  and  the  wagon  rolled  away  slowly.  The 
landlady  and  the  nigger  stood  to  watch  it  from 
the  "stoep." 

Very  silently  the  great  wagon  rolled  along  the 
grass-covered  plain.  The  driver  on  the  front  box 
did  not  clap  his  whip  or  call  to  his  oxen,  and 
Gregory  sat  beside  him  with  folded  arms.  Behind 
them,  in  the  closed  wagon,  she  lay  with  the  dog 
at  her  feet,  very  quiet,  with  folded  hands.  He, 
Gregory,  dared  not  be  in  there.  Like  Hagar, 
when  she  laid  her  treasure  down  in  the  wilder- 
ness, he  sat  afar  off  : — "  For  Hagar  said,  Let  me 
not  see  the  death  of  the  child." 

Evening  came,  and  yet  the  blue  mountain  was 
not  reached,  and  all  the  next  day  they  rode  on 
slowly,  but  still  it  was  far  off.  Only  at  evening 
they  reached  it ;-  not  blue  now,  but  low  and  brown, 
covered  with  long  waving  grasses  and  rough 
stones.    They  drew  the  wagon  up  close  to  its 


366  ■  ,  THE  STORY  OF 

foot  for  the  night.  It  was  a  sheltered,  warm 
spot. 

When  the  dark  night  had  come,  when  the  tired 
oxen  were  tied  to  the  wheels,  and  the  driver  and 
leader  had  rolled  themselves  in  their  blankets 
before  the  fire,  and  gone  to  sleep,  then  Gregory 
fastened  down  the  sails  of  the  wagon  securely. 
He  fixed  a  long  candle  near  the  head  of  the  bed, 
and  lay  down  himself  on  the  floor  of  the  wagon 
near  the  back.  He  leaned  his  head  against  the 
"kartel,"  and,  listened  to  the  chewing  of  the  tired 
oxen,  and  to  the  crackling  of  the  fire,  till,  over- 
powered by  weariness,  he  fell  into  a  heavy  sleep. 
Then  all  was  very  still  in  the  wagon.  The  dog 
slept  on  his  mistress's  feet,  and  only  two  mosqui- 
toes, creeping  in  through  a  gap  in  the  front  sail, 
buzzed  drearily  round. 

The  night  was  grown  very  old  when  from  a 
long,  peaceful  sleep  Lyndall  awoke.  The  candle 
burnt  at  her  head,  the  dog  lay  on  her  feet ;  but 
he  shivered ;  it  seemed  as  though  a  coldness 
struck  up  to  him  from  his  resting-place.  She  lay 
with  folded  hands,  looking  upward  ;  and  she 
heard  the  oxen  chewing,  and  she  saw  the  two 
mosquitoes  buzzing  drearily  round  and  round,  and 
her  thoughts, — her  thoughts  ran  far  back  into  the 
past. 

Through  these  months  of  anguish  a  mist  had 
rested  on  her  mind  ;  it  was  rolled  together  now, 
and  the  old  clear  intellect  awoke  from  its  long 
torpor.  It  looked  back  into  the  past ;  it  saw  the 
present  ;  there  was  no  future  now.  The  old 
strong  soul  gathered  itself  together  for  the  last 
time  j  it  knew  where  it  stood. 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  367 

Slowly  raising '  herself  on  her  elbow,  she  took 
from  the  sail  a  glass  that  hung  pinned  there. 
Her  fingers  were  stiff  and  cold.  She  put  the 
pillow  on  her  breast,  and  stood  the  glass  against 
it.  Then  the  white  face  on  the  pillow  looked 
into  the  white  face  in  the  glass.  They  had  looked 
at  each  other  often  so  before.  It  had  been  a  child's 
face  once,  looking  out  above  its  blue  pinafore  ;  it 
had  been  a  woman's  face  with  a  dim  shadow  in 
the  eyes,  and  a  something  which  had  said,  "  We 
are  not  afraid,  you  and  I  ;  we  are  together  ;  wa 
will  fight,  you  and  I."  Now  to-night  it  had  come 
to  this.  The  dying  eyes  on  the  pillow  looked 
into  the  dying  eyes  in  the  glass  ;  they  knew  that 
their  hour  had  come.  She  raised  one  hand  and 
pressed  the  stiff  fingers  against  the  glass.  They 
were  growing  very  still.  She  tried  to  speak  to 
it,  but  she  would  never  speak  again.  Only,  the 
wonderful  yearning  light  was  in  the  eyes  still. 
The  body  was  dead  now,  but  the  soul,  clear  and 
unclouded,  looked  forth. 

Then  slowly,  without  a  sound,  the  beautiful 
eyes  closed.  The  dead  face  that  the  glass  re- 
flected was  a  thing  of  marvelous  beauty  and 
tranquillity.  The  Gray  Dawn  crept  in  over  it, 
and  saw  it  lying  there. 

Had  she  found  what  she  sought  for — some- 
thing to  worship  ?  Had  she  ceased  from  being  ? 
Who  shall  tell  us  ?  There  is  a  veil  of  terrible 
mist  over  the  face  of  the  Hereafter. 


368  THE  STORY  OF 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

DREAMS. 

"  Tell  me  what  a  soul  desires,  and  I  will  tell 
you  what  it  is."     So  runs  the  phrase. 

"  Tell .  me  what  a  man  dreams,  and  I  will  tell 
you  what  he  loves."     That  also  has  its  truth. 

For,  ever  from  the  earliest  childhood  to  the 
latest  age,  day  by  day,  and  step  by  step,  the 
busy  waking  life  is  followed  and  reflected  by  the 
life  of  dreams — waking  dreams,  sleeping  dreams. 
Weird,  misty,  and  distorted  as  the  inverted 
image  of  a  mirage,  or  a  figure  seen  through  the 
mountain  mist,  they  are  still  the  reflections  of  a 
reality. 

On  the  night  when  Gregory  told  his  story, 
Waldo  sat  alone  before  the  fire,  his  untasted 
supper  before  him.  He  was  weary  after  his  day's 
work — too  weary  to  eat.  He  put  the  plate  down 
on  the  floor  for  Doss,  who  licked  it  clean,  and  then 
went  back  to  his  corner.  After  a  time  the  master 
threw  himself  across  the  foot  of  the  bed  without 
undressing,  and  fell  asleep  there.  He  slept  so 
long  that  the  candle  burnt  itself  out,  and  the  room 
was  in  darkness.  But  he  dreamed  a  lovely 
dream  as  he  lay  there. 

In  his  dream,  to  his  right  rose  high  mountains, 
their  tops  crowned  with  snow,  their  sides  clothed 
with  bush  mi  bathed  in  the*  sunshine.    At  th§if 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  369 

feet  was  the  sea,  blue  and  breezy,  bluer  than  any 
earthly  sea,  like  the  sea  he  had  dreamed  of  in  his 
boyhood.  In  the  narrow  forest  that  ran  between 
the  mountains  and  the  sea  the  air  was  rich  with 
the  scent  of  the  honey-creeper  that  hung  from 
dark  green  bushes,  and  through  the  velvety  grass 
little  streams  ran  purling  down  into  the  sea.  He 
sat  on  a  high  square  rock  among  the  bushes,  and 
Lyndall  sat  by  him  and  sang  to  him.  She  was 
only  a  small  child  with  a  blue  pinafore,  and  a 
grave,  grave,  little  face.  He  was  looking  up  at 
the  mountains,  then  suddenly  when  he  looked 
round  she  was  gone.  He  slipped  down  from 
his  rock,  and  went  to  look  for  her,  but  he  found 
only  her  little  footmarks  :  he  found  them  on  the 
bright  green  grass,  and  in  the  moist  sand,  and 
there  where  the  little  streams  ran  purling 
down  into  the  sea.  In  and  out,  in  and  out,  and 
among  the  bushes  where  the  honey-creeper  hung, 
he  went  looking  for  her.  At  last,  far  off,  in  the 
sunshine,  he  saw  her  gathering  shells  upon  the 
sand. .  She  was  not  a  child  now,  but  a  woman, 
and  the  sun  shone  on  her  soft  brown  hair,  and  in 
her  white  dress  she  put  the  shells  she  gathered. 
She  was  stooping,  but  when  she  heard  his  steps 
she  stood  up,  holding  her  skirt  close  about  her, 
and  waited  for  his  coming.  One  hand  she  put  in 
his,  and  together  they  walked  on  over  the  glitter- 
ing sand  and  pink  sea-shells  ;  and  they  heard  the 
leaves  talking,  and  they  heard  the  waters  babbling 
on  their  way  to  the  sea,  and  they  heard  the  sea 
-singing  to  itself,  singing,  singing. 
At  last  they  came  to  a  place  where  w^s  a.  long 
«4 


370  THE  STORY  OF 

reach  of  pure  white  sand  :  there  she  stood  still, 
and  dropped  on  to  the  sand  one  by  one  the  shells 
that  she  had  gathered.  Then  she  looked  up  into 
his  face  with  her  beautiful  eyes.  She  said 
nothing ;  but  she  lifted  one  hand  and  laid  it  softly 
on  his  forehead  ;  the  other  she  laid  on  his  heart. 

With  a  cry  of  suppressed  agony  Waldo  sprang 
from  the  bed,  flung  open  the  upper  half  of  the 
door,  and  leaned  out,  breathing  heavily. 

Great  God  !  it  might  be  only  a  dream,  but  the 
pain  was  very  real,  as  though  a  knife  ran  through 
his  heart,  as  though  some  treacherous  murderer 
crept  on  him  in  the  dark  !  The  strong  man  drew 
his  breath  like  a  frightened  woman. 

"  Only  a  dream,  but  the  pain  was  very  real," 
he  muttered,  as  he  pressed  his  right  hand  upon  his 
breast.  Then  he  folded  his  arms  on  the  door, 
and  stood  looking  out  into  the  starlight. 

The  dream  was  with  him  still ;  the  woman  who 
was  his  friend  was  not  separated  from  him  by 
years — only  that  very  night  he  had  seen  her. 
He  looked  up  into  the  night  sky  that  all  his  life 
long  had  mingled  itself  with  his  existence.  There 
were  a  thousand  faces  that  he  loved  looking  down 
at  him,  a  thousand  stars  in  their  glory,  in  crowns, 
and  circles,  and  solitary  grandeur.  To  the  man 
they  were  not  less  dear  than  to  the  boy  they  had 
been  not  less  mysterious ;  yet  he  looked  up  at  them 
and  shuddered  ;  at  last  turned  away  from  them 
with  horror.  Such  countless  multitudes,  stretch- 
ing out  far  into  space,  and  yet  not  in  one  of  them 
all  was  she  !  Though  he  searched  through  them 
all,  to  the  farthest,  faintest  point  of  light,  nowhere 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  371 

should  he  ever  say,  "  She  is  here ! "  To- 
morrow's sun  would  rise  and  gild  the  world's 
mountains,  and  shine  into  its  thousand  valleys ; 
it  would  set  and  the  stars  creep  out  again.  Year 
after  year,  century  after  century,  the  old  changes 
of  nature  would  go  on,  day  and  night,  summer 
and  winter,  seed-time  and  harvest;  but  in  none  of 
them  all  would  she  have  part ! 

He  shut  the  door  to  keep  out  their  hideous 
shining,  and  because  the  dark  was  intolerable  lit 
a  candle,  and  paced  the  little  room,  faster  and 
faster  yet.  He  saw  before  him  the  long  ages  of 
eternity  that  would  roll  on,  on,  on,  and  never 
bring  her.  She  would  exist  no  more.  A  dark 
mist  filled  the  little  room. 

"  Oh,  little  hand  !  oh,  little  voice !  oh,  little 
form  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  oh,  little  soul  that  walked 
with  mine  !  oh,  little  soul  that  looked  so  fearlessly 
down  into  the  depths,  do  you  exist  no  more  for- 
ever—for all  time  ?  "  He  cried  more  bitterly : 
"  It  is  for  this  hour — this — that  men  blind  reason, 
and  crush  out  thought.  For  this  hour— this,  this 
— they  barter  truth  and  knowledge,  take  any  lie, 
any  creed,  so  it  does  not  whisper  to  them  of  the 
dead  that  they  are  dead  !  Oh,  God  !  God  !  for  a 
Hereafter!"    # 

Pain  made  his  soul  weak ;  it  cried  for  the  old 
faith.  They  are  the  tears  that  fall  into  the  new- 
made  grave  that  cement  the  power  of  the  priest. 
For  the  cry  of  the  soul  that  loves  and  loses  is  this, 
only  this :  "  Bridge  over  Death  ;  blend  the  Here 
with  the  Hereafter  ;  cause  the  mortal  to  robe  him- 
self in  immortality ;  let  me  not  say  of  my  Dead 


that  it  is  dead !  I  will  believe  all  else,  bear  all 
else,  endure  all  else  ? " 

Muttering  to  himself,  Waldo  walked  with  bent 
head,  the  mist  in  his  eyes. 

To  the  soul's  wild  cry  for  its  own  there  are 
many  answers..  He  began  to  think  of  them. 
Was  not  there  one  of  them  all  from  which  he 
might  suck  one  drop  of  comfort  ? 

"  You  shall  see  her  again,"  says  the  Christian, 
the  true  Bible  Christian.  "  Yes ;  you  shall  see 
her  again.  *  And  I  saw  the  dead,  great  and  small, 
stand  before  God.  And  the  books  were  opened,  and 
the  dead  were  judged  from  those  things  which  were 
written  in  the  b^oks.  And  whosoever  was  not 
puna  written  in  the  book  of  life  was  cast  i?ito  the 
lake  of  fire,  which  is  the  second  death?  Yes ;  you 
shall  see  her  again.  She  died  so — with  her  knee 
unbent,  with  her  hand  unraised,  with  a  prayer 
unuttered,  in  the  pride  of  her  intellect  and  the 
strength  of  her  youth.  She  loved  and  she  was 
loved  ;  but  she  said  no  prayer  to  God  ;  she  cried 
for  no  mercy  ;  she  repented  of  no  sin  !  Yes ;  you 
shall  see  her  again." 

In  his  bitterness  Waldo  laughed  low. 

Ah,  he  had  long  ceased  to  hearken  to  the  hell- 
ish voice. 

But  yet  another  speaks. 

"  You  shall  see  her  again,"  says  the  nineteenth- 
century  Christian,  deep  into  whose  soul  modern 
unbelief  and  thought  have  crept,  though  he  knows 
it  not.  He  it  is  who  uses  his  Bible  as  the  pearl- 
fishers  use  their  shells,  sorting  out  gems  from 
refuse  j  he  sets  his  pearls  after  his  own  fashion, 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


373 


and  he  sets  them  well  "  Do  not  fe9\,"  he  says  ; 
"  hell  and  judgment  are  not.  God  is  love.  I 
know  that  beyond  this  blue  sky  above  us  is  a  love 
as  wide-spreading  over  all.  The  All-Father  will 
show  her  to  you  again  ;  not  spirit  only — the  little 
hands,  the  little  feet  you  loved,  you  shall  lie  down 
and  kiss  them  if  you  will.  Christ  arose,  and  did 
eat  and  drink,  so  shall  she  arise.  The  dead,  all 
the  dead,  raised  incorruptible !  God  is  love. 
You  shall  see  her  again." 

It  is  a  heavenly  song,  this  of  the  nineteenth- 
century  Christian.  A  man  might  dry  his  tears  to 
listen  to  it,  but  for  this  one  thing, — Waldo  mut- 
tered to  himself  confusedly : — 

"  The  thing  I  loved  was  a  woman  proud  and 
young ;  it  had  a  mother  once,  who,  dying,  kissed 
her  little  baby,  and  prayed  God  that  she  might 
see  it  again.  If  it  had  lived  the  loved  thing 
would  itself  have  had  a  son,  who,  when  he  closed 
the  weary  eyes  and  smoothed  the  wrinkled  fore- 
head of  his  mother,  would  have  prayed  God  to 
see  that  old  face  smile  again  in  the  Hereafter. 
To  the  son  heaven  will  be  no  heaven  if  the  sweet 
worn  face  is  not  in'one  of  the  choirs  ;  he  will  look 
for  it  through  the  phalanx  of  God's  glorified 
angels  ;  and  the  youth  will  look  for  the  maid,  and 
the  mother  for  the  baby.  '  And  whose  then  shall 
she  be  at  the  resurrection  of  the  dead  ? '  " 

"  Ah  God !  ah  God  !  a  beautiful  dream/'  he 
cried  ;  "  but  can  any  one  dream  it  not  sleeping  ?  " 

Waldo  paced  on,  moaning  in  agony  and  longing. 

He  heard  the  Transcendentalist's  high  answer. 

"What  have  you  to  do  with  flesh,  the  gross  and 


374  THE  STORY  OF 

miserable  garment  in  which  spirit  hides  itself? 
You  shall  see  her  again.  But  the  hand,  the  foot, 
the  forehead  you  loved,  you  shall  see  no  more. 
The  loves,  the  fears,  the  frailties  that  are  born 
with  the  flesh,  with  the  flesh  they  shall  die.  Let 
them  die  !  There  is  that  in  man  that  cannot  die, 
— a  seed,  a  germ,  an  embryo,  a  spiritual  essence. 
Higher  than  she  was  on  earth,  as  the  tree  is 
higher  than  the  seed,  the  man  than  the  embryo, 
so  shall  you  behold  her  ;  changed,  glorified  !  " 

High  words,  ringing  well ;  they  are  the  offer- 
ing of  jewels  to  the  hungry,  of  gold  to  the  man 
who  dies  for  bread.  Bread  is  corruptible,  gold 
is  incorruptible  ;  bread  is  light,  gold  is  heavy ; 
bread  is  common,  gold  is  rare  ;  but  the  hungry 
man  will  barter  all  your  mines  for  one  morsel  of 
bread.  Around  God's  throne  there  may  be  choirs 
and  companies  of  angels,  cherubim  and  seraphim, 
rising  tier  above  tier,  but  not  for  one  of  them  all 
does  the  soul  cry  aloud.  Only  perhaps  for  a 
little  human  woman  full  of  sin  that  it  once 
loved. 

"  Change  is  death,  change  is  death,"  he  cried. 
"  I  want  no  angel,  only  she ;  no  holier  and  no 
better,  with  all  her  sins  upon  her,  so  give  her  me 
or  give  me  nothing  !  " 

And,  truly,  does  not  the  heart  love  its  own  with 
the  strongest  passion  for  their  very  frailties  ? 
Heaven  might  keep  its  angels  if  men  were  but 
left  to  men. 

"  Change  is  death,"  he  cried,  "  change  is  death  ! 
Who  dares  to  say  the  body  never  dies,  because 
it  turns  again   to  grass  and  flowers?     And  yet 


AM  AFRICAN  FARM. 


375 


they  dare  to  say  the  spirit  never  dies,  because  in 
space  some  strange  unearthly  being  may  have 
sprung  up  upon  its  ruins.  Leave  me  !  Leave 
me  !  "  he  cried  in  frantic  bitterness.  "  Give  me 
back  what  I  have  lost,  or  give  me  nothing." 

For  the  soul's  fierce  cry  for  immortality  is  this, 
— only  this  :— Return  to  me  after  death  the  thing 
as  it  was  before.  Leave  me  in  the  Hereafter  the 
being  I  am  to-day.  Rob  me  of  the  thoughts,  the 
feelings,  the  desires  that  are  my  life,  and  you 
have  left  nothing  to  take.  Your  immortality  is 
annihilation,  your  Hereafter  is  a  lie. 

Waldo  flung  open  the  door,  and  walked  out 
into  the  starlight,  his  pain-stricken  thoughts  ever 
driving  him  on  as  he  paced  there. 

"There  must  be  a  Hereafter  because  man 
longs  for  it !  "  he  whispered.  "  Is  not  all  life 
from  -the  cradle  to  the  grave  one  long  yearning 
for  that  which  we  n«ver  touch  ?  There  must  be 
a  Hereafter  because  we  cannot  think  of  any  end 
to  life.  Can  we  think  of  a  beginning?  Is  it 
easier  to  say  '  I  was  not  '  than  to  say  '  I  shall 
not  be'  ?  And  yet,  where  were  we  ninety  years 
ago  ?  Dreams,  dreams  !  Ah,  all  dreams  and 
lies  !     No  ground  anywhere." 

He  went  back  into  the  cabin  and  walked  there. 
Hour  after  hour  passed,  and  he  was  dreaming. 

For,  mark  you,  men  will  dream  ;  the  most  that 
can  be  asked  of  them  is  but  that  the  dream  be 
not  in  too  glaring  discord  with  the  thing  they 
know.     He  walked  with  bent  head. 

All  dies,  all  dies  !  the  roses  are  red  with  the 
matter  that  once  reddened  the  cheek  of  the  child  ; 


376  THE  STORY  OF 

the  flowers  bloom  the  fairest  on  the  last  year's 
battle-ground ;  the  work  of  death's  finger  cun- 
ningly wreathed  over  is  at  the  heart  of  all  things, 
even  of  the  living.  Death's  finger  is  everywhere. 
The  rocks  are  built  up  of  a  life  that  was.  Bodies, 
thoughts,  and  loves  die  :  from  where  springs  that 
whisper  to  the  tiny  soul  of  man,  "  You  shall  not 
die  "  ?  Ah,  is  there  no  truth  of  which  this  dream 
is  shadow  ? 

He  fell  into  perfect  silence.  And,  at  last,  as 
he  walked  there  with  his  bent  head,  his  soul 
passed  down  the  steps  of  contemplation  into  that 
vast  land  where  there  is  always  peace  ;  that  land 
where  the  soul,  gazing  long,  loses  all  conscious- 
ness of  its  little  self,  and  almost  feels  its  hand  on 
the  old  mystery  of  Universal  Unity  that  sur- 
rounds it. 

"  No  death,  no  death,"  he  muttered  ;  "  there  is 
that  which  never  dies — which  abides.  It  is  but 
the  individual  that  perishes,  the  whole  remains. 
It  is  the  organism  that  vanishes,  the  atoms-  are 
there.  It  is  but  the  man  that  dies,  the  Universal 
Whole  of  which  he  is  part  reworks  him  into  its 
inmost  self.  Ah,  what  matter  that  man's  day  be 
short ! — that  the  sunrise  sees  him,  and  the  sun- 
set sees  his  grave ;  that  of  which  he  is  but  the 
breath  has  breathed  him  forth  and  drawn  him  back 
again.     That  abides — we  abide." 

For  the  little  soul  that  cries  aloud  for  continued 
personal  existence  for  itself  and  its  beloved,  there 
is  no  help.  For  the  soul  which  knows  itself  no 
more  as  a  unit,  but  as  a  part  of  the  Universal 
Unitj  of  which  the  Beloved  also  is  a  part ;  which 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  377 

feels  within  itself  the  throb  of  the  Universal  Life; 
for  that  soul  there  is  no  death. 

"  Let  us  die,  beloved,  you  and  I,  that  we  may 
pass  on  forever  through  the  Universal  Life !  " 
In  that  deep  world  of  contemplation  all  fierce 
desires  die  out,  and  peace  comes  down.  He, 
Waldo,  as  he  walked  there,  saw  no  more  the 
world  that  was  about  him;  cried  out  no  more 
for  the  thing  that  he  had  lost.  His  soul  rested. 
Was  it  only  John,  think  you,  who  saw  the  heavens 
open  ?     The  dreamers  see-  it  every  day. 

Long  years  before  the  father  had  walked  in 
the  little  cabin,  and  seen  choirs  of  angels,  and  a 
prince  like  unto  men,  but  clothed  in  immortality. 
The  son's  knowledge  was  not  as  the  father's, 
therefore  the  dream  was  new-tinted,  but  the 
sweetness  was  all  there,  the  infinite  peace,  that 
men  find  not  in  the  little  cankered  kingdom  of 
the  tangible.  The  bars  of  the  real  are  set  close 
about  us ;  we  cannot  open  our  wings  but  they 
are  struck  against  them,  and  drop  bleeding.  But 
when  we  glide  between  the  bars  into  the  great 
unknown  beyond,  we  may  sail  forever  in  the 
glorious  blue,  seeing  nothing  but  our  own  shadows. 

So  age  succeeds  age,  and  dream  succeeds 
dream,  and  of  the  joy  of  the  dreamer  no  man 
knoweth  but  he  who  dreameth. 

Our  fathers  had  their  dream  ;  we  have  ours ; 
the  generation  that  follows  will  have  its  own. 
Without  dreams  and  phantoms  man  cannot  exist. 


378  THE  STORY  OF 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

WALDO   GOES   OUT   TO    SIT    IX    THE  SUNSHINE. 

It  had  been  a  princely  day.  The  long  morn- 
ing had  melted  slowly  into  a  rich  afternoon. 
Rains  had  covered  the  karroo  with  a  heavy  coat 
of  green  that  hid  the  red  earth  even-where.  In 
the  very  chinks  of  the  stone  walls  dark  green 
leaves  hung  out,  and  beauty  and  growth  had  crept 
even  into  the  beds  of  the  sandy  furrows  and  lined 
them  with  weeds.  On  the  broken  sod-walls  of 
the  old  pigsty  chick-weeds  flourished,  and  ice- 
plants  lifted  their  transparent  leaves.  Waldo  was 
at  work  in  the  wagon-house  again.  He  was  mak- 
ing a  kitchen-table  for  Em.  As  the  long  curls 
gathered  in  heaps  before  his  plane,  he  paused  for 
an  instant  now  and  again  to  throw  one  down  to 
a  small  naked  nigger,  who  had  crept  from  its 
mother,  who  stood  churning  in  the  sunshine,  and 
had  crawled  into  the  wagon-house.  From  time 
to  time  the  little  animal  lifted  its  fat  hand  as  it 
expected  a  fresh  shower  of  curls ;  till  Doss,  jeal- 
ous of  his  master's  noticing  any  other  small 
creature  but  himself,  would  catch  the  curl  in  its 
mouth  and  roll  the  little  Kaffir  over  in  the  saw- 
dust, much  to  that  small  animal's  contentment. 
It  was  too  lazy  an  afternoon  to  be  really  ill 
natured,  so  Doss  satisfied  himself  with  snapping 
at  the  little  nigger's  fingers,  and  sitting  on  him  till 
he  laughed.     Waldo,  as  he  worked,  glanced  down 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM. 


379 


at  them  now  and  then,  and  smiled  ;  but  he  never 
looked  out  across  the  plain.  He  was  conscious 
without  looking  of  that  broad  green  earth  ;  it  made 
his  work  pleasant  to  him.  Near  the  shadow  at 
the  gable  the  mother  of  the  little  nigger  stood 
churning.  Slowly  she  raised  and  let  fall  the  stick 
in  her  hands,  murmuring  to  herself  a  sleepy  chant 
such  as  her  people  love  ;  it  sounded  like  the  hum- 
ming of  far-off  bees. 

A  different  life  showed  itself  in  the  front  of  the 
house,  where  Tant'  Sannie's  cart  stood  ready  in- 
spanned,  and  the  Boer-woman  herself  sat  in  the 
front  room  drinking  coffee.  She  had  come  to 
visit  her  step-daughter,  probably  for  the"  last  time, 
as  she  now  weighed  two  hundred  and  sixty 
pounds,  and  was  not  easily  able  to  move.  On  a 
chair  sat  her  mild  young  husband  nursing  the 
baby — a  pudding-faced,  weak-eyed  child. 

"  You  take  it  and  get  into  the  cart  with  it," 
said  Tant'  Sannie.  "What  do  you  want  here, 
listening  to  our  woman's  talk  ? " 

The  young  man  arose,  and  meekly  went  out 
with  the  baby. 

"  I'm  very  glad  you  are  going  to  be  married,  my 
child,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  as  she  drained  the  last 
drop  from  her  coffee-cup.  "  I  wouldn't  say  so 
while  that  boy  was  here,  it  would  make  him  too 
conceited ;  but  marriage  is  the  finest  thing  in  the 
world.  I've  been  at  it  three  times,  and  if  it 
pleased  God  to  take  this  husband  from  me  I 
should  have  another.  There's  nothing  like  it,  my 
child ;  nothing." 

"  Perhaps  it  might  not  suit  all  people,  at  all 


380  THE  STORY  OF 

times,  as  well  as  it  suits  you,  Taut'  Sannie,"  said 
Em.  There  was  a  little  shade  of  weariness  in  the 
voice. 

"  Not  suit  every  one !  "  said  Tant'  Sannie. 
"  If  the  beloved  Redeemer  didn't  mean  men  to 
have  wives  what  did  He  make  women  for  ?  that's 
what  I  say.  If  a  woman's  old  enough  to  marry, 
and  doesn't,  she's  sinning  against  the  Lord — it's 
a  wanting  to  know  better  than  Him.  What  does 
she  think  the  Lord  took  all  that  trouble  in  mak- 
ing her  for  nothing  ?  It's  evident  He  wants 
babies,  otherwise  why  does  He. send  them  ?  Not 
that  I've  done  much  in  that  way  myself,"  said 
Tant'  Sannie  sorrowfully ;  "  but  I've  done  my 
best." 

She  rose  with  some  difficulty  from  her  chairj 
and  began  moving  slowly  toward  the  door. 

"  It's  a  strange  thing,"  she  said,  "  but  you  can't 
love  a  man  till  you've  had  a  baby  by  him.  Now 
there's  that  boy  there, — when  we  were  first  mar- 
ried, if  he  only  sneezed  in  the  night  I  boxed  his 
ears  ;  now  if  he  lets  his  pipe-ash  come  on  my 
milk-cloths  I  don't  think  of  laying  a  finger  on  him. 
There's  nothing  like  being  married,"  said  Tant' 
Sannie,  as  she  puffed  towrard  the  door.  "  If  a 
woman's  got  a  baby  and  a  husband  she's  got  the 
best  things  the  Lord  can  give  her ;  if  only  the 
baby  doesn't  have  convulsions.  As  for  a  hus- 
band, it's  very  much  the  same  who  one  has. 
Some  men  are  fat,  and  some  men  are  thin  ;  some 
drink  brandy,  and  some  men  drink  gin  ;  but  it  all 
comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end  ;  it's  all  one* 
A  man's  a  man,  you  know." 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM  381 

Here  they  came  upon  Gregory,  who  was  sitting 
in  the  shade  before  the  house.  Tanf  Sarmie 
shook  hands  with  him. 

»  I'm  dad  you're  going  to  get  married  she 
said  "I  hope  you'll  have  as  many  children  in 
five  years  as  a  cow  has  calves,  and  more  too.  I 
think  I'll  just  go  and  have  a  look  at  your  soap- 
pot  before  I  start,"  she  said,  turning  to  Km. 
"Not  that  I  believe  in  this  new  plan  of  putting 
soda  in  the  pot.  If  the  dear  Father  had  meant 
soda  to  be  put  into  soap,  what  would  He  have 
made  milk-bushes  for,  and  stuck  them  all  over  the 
<  veld '  as  thick  as  lambs  in  the  lambing  season  ? 

She  waddled  off  after  Em  in  the  direction  of 
the  built-in  soap-pot,  leaving  Gregory  as  they 
found  him,  with  his  dead  pipe  lying  on  the  bench 
beside  him,  and  his  blue  eyes  gazing  out  far 
across  the  flat,  like  one  who  sits  on  the  sea-shore 
watching  that  which  is  fading,  fading  from  him 
Against  his  breast  was  a  letter  found  m  a  desk 
addressed  to  himself,  but  never  posted.  It  held 
only  four  words  :  "  You  must  marry  Em.  He 
wore  it  in  a  black  bag  round  his  neck.  It  was  the 
only  letter  she  had  ever  written  to  him. 

"You  see  if  the  sheep  don't  have  the  scab  this 
vear  '  "  said  Tanf  Sannie  as  she  waddled  after 
Fm  '  "  It's  with  all  these  new  inventions  that  the 
math  of  God  must  fall  on  us.  What  were  the 
Children  of  Israel  punished  for,  if  it  wasnt  for 
making  the  golden  calf?  I  may  have  my  sins, 
but  I  do  remember  the  tenth  commandment: 
« Honor  thy  father  and  thy  mother  that  it  may  be 
well  with  thee,  and  that  thou  mayst  live  long  in 


382  THE  STORY  OF 

the  land  which  the  Lord  thy  God  giveth  thee  If* 
It's  all  very  well  to  say  we  honor  them,  and  then 
to  be  rinding  out  things  that  they  never  knew, 
and  doing  things  in  a  way  they  never  did  them  J 
My  mother  boiled  soap  with  bushes,  and  I  will 
boil  soap  with  bushes.  If  the  wrath  of  God  is 
to  fall  upon  this  land,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  with 
the  serenity  of  conscious  virtue,  "it  shall  not  be 
through  me.  Let  them  make  their  steam  wagons 
and  their  fire-carriages ;  let  them  go  on  as  though 
the  dear  Lord  didn't  know  what  He  was  about 
when  He  gave  horses  and  oxen  legs — the  destruc- 
tion of  the  Lord  will  follow  them.  I  don't  know 
how  such  people  read  their  Bibles.  When  do  we 
hear  of  Moses  or  Noah  riding  in  a  railway  ?  The 
Lord  sent  fire-carriages  out  of  heaven  in  those 
days ;  there's  no  chance  of  His  sending  them  for 
us  if  we  go  on  in  this  way,"  said  Tant'  Sannie 
sorrowfully,  thinking  of  the  splendid  chance  which 
this  generation  had  lost. 

Arrived  at  the  soap-pot,  she  looked  over  into  it 
thoughtfully. 

"  Depend  upon  it  you'll  get  the  itch,  or  some 
other  disease ;  the  blessing  of  the  Lord  '11  never 
rest  upon  it,"  said  the  Boer-woman.  Then  sud- 
denly she  broke  forth.  "  And  she  eighty-two, 
and  goats,  and  rams,  and  eight  thousand  morgen, 
and  the  rams  real  angora,  and  two  thousand  sheep, 
and  a  short-horned  bull,"  said  Tant'  Sannie,  stand- 
ing upright  and  planting  a  hand  on  each  hip. 

Em  looked  at  her  in  silent  wonder.  Had  con- 
nubial bliss  and  the  joys  of  motherhood  really 
turned  the  old  Boer-woman's  head  ? 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  383 

"  Yes,"  said  Tant'  Sannie  ;  "  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten to  tell  you.  By  the  Lord,  if  I  had  him  herel 
We  were  walking  to  church  last  Sacrament  Sun< 
day,  Piet  and  I.  Close  in  front  of  us  was  old 
Tant'  Trana,  with  dropsy  and  cancer,  and  can't 
live  eight  months.  Walking  by  her  was  some- 
thing with  its  hands  under  its  coat-tails,  flap, 
flap,  flap  ;  and  its  chin  in  the  air,  and  a  stick-up 
collar,  and  the  black  hat  on  the  very  back  of  the 
head.  I  knew  him!  *  Who's  that?'  I  asked. 
<  The  rich  Englishman  that  Tant'  Trana  married 
last  week.'  '  Rich  Englishman  !  I'll  rich  Eng- 
lishman him,'  I  said  ;  '  I'll  tell  Tant'  Trana  a  thing 
or  two.'  My  ringers  were  just  in  his  little  white 
curls.  If -it  hadn't  been  the  blessed  Sacrament, 
he  wouldn't  have  walked  so  '  sourka  sourka, 
courka,'  any  more.      But  I  thought,  Wait  till  I've 

had  it,  and  then But  he,  sly  fox,  son  of  Satan, 

seed  of  the  Amalekite,  he  saw  me  looking  at 
him  in  the  church.  The  blessed  Sacrament 
wasn't  half  over  when  he  takes  Tant'  Trana  by 
the  arm,  and  out  they  go.  I  clap  my  baby  down 
to  its  father,  and  I  go  after  them.  But,"  said 
Tant'  Sannie,  regretfully,  "  I  couldn't  get  up  to 
them  ;  I  am  too  fat.  When  I  got  to  the  corner 
he  was  pulling  Tant'  Trana  up  into  the  cart. 
*  Tant'  Trana,'  I  said,  '  you've  married  a  Kaffir's 
dog,  a  Hottentot's  'brakje.'  I  hadn't  anymore 
breath.  He  winked  at  me  ;  he  winked  at  me," 
said  Tant'  Sannie,  her  sides  shaking  with  indigna- 
tion, "  first  with  one  eye,  and  then  with  the  other, 
and  then  drove  away.  Child  of  the  Amalekite  ! M 
said  Tant'  Sannie,  "  if  it  hadn't  been  the  blessed 
Sacrament.     Lord,  Lord.  Lord  ! " 


:#; 


384  THB  BTORY  OF 

Here  the  little  Bush-girl  came  running  to  say 
that  the  horses  would  stand  no  longer,  and  still 
breathing  out  vengeance  against  her  old  adver- 
sary she  labored  toward  the  cart.  Shaking  hands 
and  affectionately  kissing  Em,  she  was  with  some 
difficulty  drawn  up.  Then  slowly  the  cart  rolled 
away,  the  good  Boer-women  putting  her  head  out 
between  the  sails  to  smile  and  nod.  Em  stood 
watching  it  for  a  time,  then  as  the  sun  dazzled 
her  eyes  she  turned  away.  There  was  no  use 
in  going  to  sit  with  Gregory :  he  liked  best  sit- 
ting there  alone,  staring  across  the  green  karroo : 
and  till  the  maid  had  done  churning  there  was 
nothing  to  do  ;  so  Em  walked  away  to  the  wagon- 
house,  and  climbed  on  to  the  end  of  Waldo's 
table,  and  sat  there,  swinging  one  little  foot 
slowly  to  and  fro,  while  the  wooden  curls  from 
the  plane  heaped  themselves  up  against  her 
black  print  dress. 

"  Waldo,"  she  said  at  last,  "  Gregory  has  given 
me  the  money  he  got  for  the  wagon  and  oxen, 
and  I  have  fifty  pounds  besides  that  once  be- 
longed to  some  one.  I  know  what  they  would 
have  liked  to  have  done  with  it.  You  must  take  it 
and  go  to  some  place  and  study  for  a  year  or  two." 

"  No,  little  one,  I  will  not  take  it,"  he  said,  as 
he  planed  slowly  away ;  "  the  time  was  when  I 
would  have  been  very  grateful  to  any  one  who 
Would  have  given  me  a  little  money,  a  little  help, 
a  little  power  of  gaining  knowledge.  But  now,  I 
have  gone  so  far  alone  I  may  go  on  to  the  end. 
I  don't  want  it,  little  one." 
She  did  not  seem  pained  at  his  refusal,  but  swung 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM  385 

W  foot  to  and  fro,  the  little  old  wrinkled  forehead 
more  wrinkled  up  than  ever. 

"  Why  is  it  always  so,  Waldo,  always  so?  "  she 
said ;  "  we  long  for  things,  and  long  for  them, 
and  pray  for  them  ;  we  would  give  all  we  have  to 
come  near  to  them,  but  we  never  reach  them. 
Then  at  last,  too  late,  just  when  we  don't  want 
them  any  more,  when  all  the  sweetness  is  taken 
out  of  them,  then  they  come.  We  don't  want 
them  then,"  she  said,  folding  her  hands  resign- 
edly on  her  little  apron.  After  a  while  she  added, 
"  I  remember  once,  very  long  ago,  when  I  was  a 
very  little  girl,  my  mother  had  a  work-box  full 
of  colored  reels.  I  always  wanted  to  play  with 
them,  but  she  would  never  let  me.  At  last  one 
day  she  said  I  might  take  the  box.  I  was  so 
glad  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do.  I  ran  round  the 
house,  and  sat  down  with  it  on  the  back  steps. 
But  when  I  opened  the  box  all  the  cottons 
were  taken  out." 

She  sat  for  a  while  longer,  till  the  Kaffir  maid 
had  finished  churning,  and  was  carrying  the 
butter  toward  the  house.  Then  Em  prepared 
to  slip  off  the  table,  but  first  she.  laid  her  little 
hand  on  Waldo's.  He  stopped  his  planing  and 
?ooked  up. 

"  Gregory  is  going  to  the  town  to-morrow.  He 
ts  going  to  give  in  our  banns  to  the  minister;  we 
are  going  to  be  married  in  three  weeks." 

Waldo  lifted  her  very  gently  from  the  table. 
He  did  not  congratulate  her ;  perhaps  he  thought 
of  the  empty  box,  but  he  kissed  her  forehead 
g~avely. 

2S 


386  THE  Sl'OR  Y  OF 

She  walked  away  toward  the  house,  but  stopped 
when  she  had  got  half-way.  "  I  will  bring  you  n. 
glass  of  butter-milk  when  it  is  cool,"  she  called 
out ;  and  soon  her  clear  voice  came  ringing  out 
through  the  back  windows  as  she  sang  the  "  Blue 
Water  "  to  herself,  and  washed  the  butter. 

Waldo  did  not  wait  till  she  returned.  Perhaps 
he  had  at  last  really  grown  weary  of  work  ;  per- 
haps he  felt  the  wagon-house  chilly  (for  he  had 
shuddered  two  or  three  times),  though  that  was 
hardly  likely  in  that  warm  summer  weather  ;  or, 
perhaps,  and  most  probably,  one  of  his  old  dream- 
ing fits  had  come  upon  him  suddenly.  He  put 
his  tools  carefully  together,  ready  for  to-morrow,, 
and  walked  slowly  out.  At  the  side  of  the  wagon- 
house  there  was  a  world  of  bright  sunshine,  and 
a  hen  with  her  chickens  was  scratching  among 
the  gravel.  Waldo  seated  himself  near  them 
with  his  back  against  the  red-brick  ,walL  The 
long  afternoon  was  half  spent,  and  the  "  kopje  " 
was  just  beginning  to  cast  its  shadow  over  the 
round-headed  yellow  flowers  that  grew  between 
it  and  the  farm-house.  Among  the  flowers  the 
white  butterflies  hovered,  and  on  the  old  "  kraal  ** 
mounds  three  white  kids  gamboled,  and  at  the 
door  of  one  of  the  huts  an  old  gray-headed  Kaffir^ 
woman  sat  on  the  ground  mending  her  mats.  A 
balmy,  restful  peacef ulness  seemed  to  reign  every- 
where. Even  the  old  hen  seemed  well  satisfied. 
She  scratched  among  the  stones  and  called  to 
her  chickens  when  she  found  a  treasure  ;  and  all 
the  while  tucked  to  herself  with  intense  inward 
satisfaction.     Waldo,  as  he  sat  with  his  knees 


AJV  AFRICAN  FARM.  387 

drawn  up  to  his  chin,  and  his  arms  folded  on 
them,  looked  at  it  all  and  smiled.  An  evil  world, 
a  deceitful,  treacherous,  mirage-like  world,  it 
might  be ;  but  a  lovely  world  for  all  that,  and  to  sit 
there  gloating  in  the  sunlight  was  perfect.  It  was 
worth  having  been  a  little  child,  and  having  cried 
and  prayed,  so  one  might  sit  there.  He  moved 
his  hands  as  though  he  were  washing  them  in  the 
sunshine.  There  will  always  be  something  worth 
living  for  while  there  are  shimmery  afternoons. 
Waldo  chuckled  with  intense  inward  satisfaction 
as  the  old  hen  had  done  ;  she,  over  the  insects  and 
the  warmth  ;  he  over  the  old  brick-walls,  and  the 
haze,  and  the  little  bushes.  Beauty  is  God's  wine, 
with  which  he  recompenses  the  souls  that  love 
him  ;  he  makes  them  drunk. 

The  fellow  looked,  and  at  last  stretched  out 
one  hand  to  a  little  ice-plant  that  grew  on  the 
sod-wall  of  the  sty  ;  not  as  though  he  would  have 
picked  it,  but  as  it  were  in  a  friendly  greeting. 
He  loved  it.  One  little  leaf- of  the  ice-plant  stood 
upright,  and  the  sun  shone  through  it.  He  could 
see  every  little  crystal  cell  like  a  drop  of  ice  in 
the  transparent  green,  and  it  thrilled  him. 

There  are  only  rare  times  when  a  man's  soul 
can  see  Nature.  So  long  as  any  passion  holds 
its  revel  there,  the  eyes  are  holden  that  they 
should  not  see  her. 

Go  out  if  you  will,  and  walk  alone  on  the  hill- 
side in  the  evening,  but  if  your  favorite  child  lies 
ill  at  home,  or  your  lover  comes  to-morrow,  or  at 
your  heart  there  lies  a  scheme  for  the  holding  of 
wealth,  then  you  will  return  as  you  went  out ; 


388  THE  STOR  Y  OF 

you  will  have  seen  nothing.  For  Nature,  ever, 
like  the  old  Hebrew  God,  cries  out,  "  Thou  shate 
have  no  other  gods  before  Me."  Only  then,  wheu 
there  comes  a  pause,  a  blank  in  your  life,  when 
the  old  idol  is  broken,  when  the  old  hope  is  dead, 
when  the  old  desire  is  crushed,  then  the  Divine 
compensation  of  Nature  is  made  manifest.  She 
shows  herself  to  you.  So  near  she  draws  you„ 
that  the  blood  seems  to  flow  from  her  to  you, 
through  a  still  uncut  cord  :  you  feel  the  throb  of 
her  life. 

When  that  day  comes,  that  you  sit  down  broken 
without  one  human  creature  to  whom  you  cling,, 
with  your  loves  the  dead  and  the  living-dead; 
when  the  very  thirst  for  knowledge  through  long 
continued  thwarting  has  grown  dull ;  when  in  the 
present  there  is  no  craving,  and  in  the  future  no 
hope,  then,  oh,  with  a  beneficent  tenderness, 
Nature  enfolds  you. 

Then  the  large  white  snow-flakes  as  they  flut- 
ter down,  softly,  one  by  one,  whisper  soothingly, 
"  Rest,  poor  heart,  rest !  "  It  is  as  though  our 
mother  smoothed  our  hair,  and  we  are  comforted 

And  yellow-legged  bees  as  they  hum  make  a 
dreamy  lyric ;  and  the  light  on  the  brown  stone 
wall  is  a  great  work  of  art ;  and  the  glitter  through 
the  leaves  makes  the  pulses  beat. 

Well  to  die  then  ;  for,  if  you  live,  so  surely  as 
the  years  come,  so  surely  as  the  spring  succeeds 
the  winter,  so  surely  will  passions  arise.  They 
%vill  creep  back,  one  by  one,  into  the  bosom  that 
has  cast  them  forth,  and  fasten  there  again,  and 
peace  will  go.     Desire,  ambition,  and  the  fierce., 


AN  AFRICAN  FARM.  385 

agonizing  flood  of  love  for  the  living — they  will 
spring  again.  Then  Nature  will  draw  down  her 
veil :  with  all  your  longing  you  shall  not  be  able 
to  raise  one  corner  ;  you  cannot  bring  back  those 
peaceful  days.     Well  to  die  then ! 

Sitting  there  with  his  arms  folded  on  his  knees, 
and  his  hat  slouched  down  over  his  face,  Waldo 
looked  out  into  the  yellow  sunshine  that  tinted 
even  the  very  air  with  the  color  of  ripe  corn,  and 
was  happy. 

He  was  an  uncouth  creature  with  small  learn- 
ing, and  no  prospect  in  the  future  but  that  of 
making  endless  tables  and  stone  walls,  yet  it 
seemed  to  him  as  he  sat  there  that  life  was  a  rare 
and  very  rich  thing.  He  rubbed  his  hands  in  the 
sunshine.  Ah,  to  live  on  so,  year  after  year,  how 
well!  Always  in  the  present;  letting  each  day 
glide,  bringing  its  own  labor  and  its  own  beauty ; 
the  gradual  lighting  up  of  the  hills,  night  and 
the  stars,  firelight  and  the  coals  !  To  live  on  so, 
calmly,  far  from  the  paths  of  men  \  and  to  look  at 
the  lives  of  clouds  and  insects ;  to  look  deep  into 
the  heart  of  flowers,  and  see  how  lovingly  the 
pistil  and  the  stamens  nestle  there  together ;  and 
to  see  in  the  thorn-pods  how  the  little  seeds  suck 
their  life  through  the  delicate  curled-up  string, 
and  how  the  little  embryo  sleeps  inside !  Well, 
how  well,  to  sit  on  one  side,  taking  no  part  in  the 
world's  life  ;  but  when  great  men  blossom  into 
books  looking  into  those  flowers  also,  to  see  how 
the  world  of  men  too  opens  beautifully,  leaf  after 
leaf.    Ah  1  life  is  delicious ;  well  to  live  long,  and 


39°  THE  STORY  OF 

see  the  darkness  breaking,  and  the  day  coming? 
The  day  when  soul  shall  not  thrust  back  soul  that 
would  come  to  it ;  when  men  shall  not  be  driven 
to   seek  solitude,  because  of  the  crying-out  of 
their  hearts  for  love  and  sympathy.     Well  to  live 
long  and  see  the  new  time  breaking.     Well  to 
live   long;  life   is   sweet,  sweet,  sweet!     In   his 
breast-pocket,  where  of  old  the  broken  slate  used 
to  be,  there  was  now  a  little  dancing-shoe  of  his 
friend  who  was  sleeping.     He  could  feel  it  when 
he  folded  his  arm  tight  against  his  breast;  and 
that  was  well  also.     He  drew  his  hat  lower  over 
his  eyes,  and  sat  so  motionless  that  the  chickens 
thought    he   was    asleep,   and  gathered    closer 
around  him.     One  even  ventured  to  peck  at  his 
boot;  but  he   ran  away  quickly.     Tiny,  yellow 
fellow  that  he  was,  he  knew  that  men  were  dan- 
gerous ;  even  sleeping  they  might  awake.     But 
Waldo  did  not  sleep,  and  coming  back  from  his 
sunshiny  dream,  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the 
tiny  thing  to  mount.     But  the  chicken  eyed  the 
hand  askance,  and  then  ran  off  to  hide  under  its 
mother's  wing,  and  from  beneath  it  it  sometimes 
put  out  its  round  head  to  peep  at  the  great  figure 
sitting  there.     Presently  its  brothers  ran  off  after 
a  little  white  moth,  and  it  ran  out  to  join  them ; 
and  when  the  moth   fluttered  away  over  their 
heads   they  stood  looking  up  disappointed,  and 
then  ran  back  to  their  mother. 

Waldo  through  his  half-closed  eyes  looked  at 
them.  Thinking,  fearing,  craving,  those  tiny 
sparks  of  brother  life,  what  were  they,  so  real 
there  in  that  old  yard  on  that  sunshiny  afternoon  / 


A M  AFRICAN  FARM.  39 1 

A  few  years — where  would  they  be?  Strange 
little  brother  spirits  !  He  stretched  his  hand  to- 
ward them,  for  his  heart  went  out  to  them  ;  but 
not  one  of  the  little  creatures  came  nearer  him, 
and  he  watched  them  gravely  for  a  time ;  then  he 
smiled,  and  began  muttering  to  himself  after  his 
old  fashion.  Afterward  he  folded  his  arms  upon 
"his  knees,  and  rested  his  forehead  on  them.  And 
so  he  sat  there  in  the  yellow  sunshine,  muttering, 
muttering,  muttering  to  himself. 

It  was  not  very  long  after  when  Em  came  out 
at  the  back-door  with  a  towel  thrown  across  her 
head,  and  in  her  hand  a  cup  of  milk. 

"  Ah,"  she  said,  coming  close  to  him,  "  he  is- 
sleeping  now.  He  will  find  it  when  he  wakes, 
and  be  glad  of  it." 

She  put  it  down  upon  the  ground  beside  him, 
The  mother-hen  was  at  work  still  among  the 
stones,  but  the  chickens  had  climbed  about  him, 
and  were  perching  on  him.  One  stood  upon  his 
shoulder,  and  rubbed  its  little  head  softly  against 
his  black  curls*,  another  tried  to  balance  itself 
on  the  very  edge  of  the  old  felt  hat.  One  tiny 
fellow  stood  upon  his  hand,  and  tried  to  crow ; 
another  had  nestled  itself  down  comfortably  on 
the  old  coat-sleeve,  and  gone  to  sleep  there. 

Em  did  not  drive  them  away ;  but  she  covered 
the  glass  softly  at  his  side.  "  He  will  wake  soon," 
she  said,  "  and  be  glad  of  it." 

But  the  chickens  were  wiser. 


THE  END. 


|PPfBWi 


mm 


